I've Never Written Nearly As Much About

Since Her Retirement From Teaching Miss Beryl's Health Had In Many Respects Greatly Improved, Despite Her Advancing Years. An Eighth-grade Classroom Was An Excellent Place To Snag Whatever Was In The Air In The Way Of Illness. Also Depression, Which, Miss Beryl Believed, In Conjunction With Guilt, Opened The Door To Illness. Miss Beryl Didn't Know Any Teachers Who Weren't Habitually Guilty And Depressed-guilty They Hadn't Accomplished More With Their Students, Depressed That Very Little More Was Possible.

Which Is Why We Have Spouses And Children And Parents And Colleagues And Friends, Because Someone Has To Know Us Better Than We Know Ourselves. We Need Them To Tell Us. We Need Them To Say, "i Know You, Al. You Are Not The Kind Of Man Who.

The Line Of Gray Along The Horizon Is Brighter Now, And With The Coming Light I Feel A Certainty: That There Is, Despite Our Wild Imaginings, Only One Life. The Ghostly Others, No Matter How Real They Seem, No Matter How Badly We Need Them, Are Phantoms. The One Life We're Left With Is Sufficient To Fill And Refill Our Imperfect Hearts With Joy, And Then To Shatter Them. And It Never, Ever Lets Up.

I Just Have This Feeling That If It Weren't For The Gloversville Free Library That I Probably Would Not Be A Writer.

Bookstores, Like Libraries, Are The Physical Manifestation Of The Wide World's Longest, Most Thrilling Conversation.