I Suppose I Have Written Novels To

Making Order Out Of Disorder Any Time, Anywhere, Can Be Regarded As A Sacrament.

When We Admit Our Vulnerability, We Include Others. If We Deny It, We Shut Them Out.

I Have Written Every Poem, Every Novel, For The Same Purpose-to Find Out What I Think, To Know Where I Stand.

The Gift Turned Inward, Unable To Be Given, Becomes A Heavy Burden, Even Sometimes A Kind Of Poison. It Is As Though The Flow Of Life Were Backed Up.

Does One Come To Enjoy Even The Hardships That Help Make One The Person One Is? Or Is It That The Past Becomes A Legend To Be Remembered With Laughter?