If You're Going To Say What You

Probably All Of Us, Writers And Readers Alike, Set Out Into Exile, Or At Least Into A Certain Kind Of Exile, When We Leave Childhood Behind...the Immigrant, The Nomad, The Traveler, The Sleepwalker All Exist, But Not The Exile, Since Every Writer Becomes An Exile Simply By Venturing Into Literature, And Every Reader Becomes An Exile Simply By Opening A Book.

Literature Is A Vast Forest And The Masterpieces Are The Lakes, The Towering Trees Or Strange Trees, The Lovely, Eloquent Flowers, The Hidden Caves, But A Forest Is Also Made Up Of Ordinary Trees, Patches Of Grass, Puddles, Clinging Vines, Mushrooms, And Little Wildflowers.

Literature + Illness = Illness

I Kept Having Dreams All Night. I Thought They Were Touching Me With Their Fingers. But Dreams Don't Have Fingers, They Have Fists, So It Must Have Been Scorpions.

I'll Tell You, My Friends: It's All In The Nerves. The Nerves That Tense And Relax As You Approach The Edges Of Companionship And Love. The Razor-sharp Edges Of Companionship And Love.