Our Worst Pain Is Confined Within Our

Writing Doesn't Come Real Easy To Me. I Couldn't Write A Novel In A Year. It Wouldn't Be Readable. I Don't Let An Editor Even Look At It Until The Second Year, Because It Would Just Scare Them. I Just Have To Trust That All These Scraps And Dead-ends Will Find A Way.

Or Maybe It Is Only That We Are So Habitually Inattentive That When Some Rare But Simple Geometry Grabs Us By The Shoulders And Shakes Us Into Consciousness, We Call Our Response Sacred.

She Wondered If Literature Might Lose Some Of Its Interest When She Reached An Age Or State Of Mind Where Her Life Was Set On Such A Sure Course That The Things She Read Might Stop Seeming So Powerfully Like Alternate Directions For Her Being.

From My Childhood, I Remember A Tiny Old Woman Named Mary, Made Pale And Almost Translucent By Time. Mary's Childhood Memories Extended Back To The Confusing And Violent Finale Of The Civil War, And She Told Stories Of Brutal Murders In Those Days And Refused To Name Some Of The Killers, As If Dead Men Might Still Be Prosecuted In The Late 1950s.

Disease Is Nature's Revenge For Our Destructiveness.