A Lie Hides The Truth. A Story

I Don't Know What Makes A Writer's Voice. It's Dozens Of Things. There Are People Who Write Who Don't Have It. They're Tone-deaf, Even Though They're Very Fluent. It's An Ability, Like Anything Else, Being A Doctor Or A Veterinarian, Or A Musician.

It Was Hard To Reassure Grown-ups When You Weren't Certain Yourself What You Were Feeling And Thinking—when Thoughts Dissolved Before You Could Name Them.

If A Person Had Accused Him Of Meanness, He Could Have Defended Himself. But With A Dog - You Did Something Cheap To It When You Were Sure No One Was Looking, And It Was As Though You Had Done It In Front Of A Mirror.

Labels Not Only Free Us From The Obligation To Think Creatively; They Numb Our Sensibilities, Our Power To Feel. During The Vietnam War, The Phrase Body Count Entered Our Vocabulary. It Is An Ambiguous Phrase, Inorganic, Even Faintly Sporty. It Distanced Us From The Painful Reality Of Corpses, Of Dead, Mutilated People.

The Language Of Labels Is Like Paper Money, Issued Irresponsibly, With Nothing Of Intrinsic Value Behind It, That Is, With No Effort Of The Intelligence To See, To Really Apprehend.