I Publish A Piece In Order To

We Have Scarcely Gotten Home ... When Our Children's Sneezes Greet Us, Skinned Knees Bleed After Waiting All Day To Do So. There Is The Bellyache And The Burned-out Basement Bulb, The Stalled Car And The Incontinent Cat. The Windows Frost, The Toilets Sweat, The Body Of Our Spouse Is One Cold Shoulder And The Darkness Of Our Bedroom Is Soon Full Of The Fallen Shadows Of Our Failures.

When Reviewers Take The Trouble To Compliment A Writer On Her Style, It Is Usually Because She Has Made It Easy For Them To Slide From One Sentence To Another Like An Otter Down A Slope.

I Do Think Of My Reader, Or Listener, Really, More Often, If I Give A Lecture, For Example, And I Know That I'm Talking To These People; I Enjoy Sort Of Preening Them A Bit. But It's A Matter Of Decorum, Basically.

The Word Itself Has Another Color. It’s Not A Word With Any Resonance, Although The E Was Once Pronounced. There Is Only The Bump Now Between B And L, The Relief At The End, The Whew. It Hasn’t The Sly Turn Which Crimson Takes Halfway Through, Yellow’s Deceptive Jelly, Or The Rolled-down Sound In Brown. It Hasn’t Violet’s Rapid Sexual Shudder Or Like A Rough Road The Irregularity Of Ultramarine, The Low Puddle In Mauve Like A Pancake Covered In Cream, The Disapproving Purse To Pink, The Assertive Brevity Of Red, The Whine Of Green.

I Get Very Tense Working, So I Often Have To Get Up And Wander Around The House. It Is Very Bad On My Stomach. I Have To Be Mad To Be Working Well Anyway, And Then I Am Mad About The Way Things Are Going On The Page In Addition. My Ulcer Flourishes And I Have To Chew Lots Of Pills. When My Work Is Going Well, I Am Usually Sort Of Sick.