And Now Such A Warm Commotion, Such

If I Decided To Send This To You, Where Would I Send It? When I Think Of Writing The Whole Address On The Envelope I Am Paralyzed. It's Too Painful To Think Of You In The Same Place With Your Life Going On In The Same Way, Minus Me. And To Think Of You Not There, You Somewhere Else But I Don't Know Where That Is, Is Worse.

I Don't Always, Or Even Usually, Read Stories From Beginning To End. I Start Anywhere And Proceed In Either Direction. A Story Is Not Like A Road To Follow, It's More Like A House. You Go Inside And Stay There For A While.

A Story Is Not Like A Road To Follow... It's More Like A House. You Go Inside And Stay There For A While, Wandering Back And Forth And Settling Where You Like And Discovering How The Room And Corridors Relate To Each Other, How The World Outside It Altered By Being Viewed From These Windows.

Lovers. Not A Soft Word, As People Thought, But Cruel And Tearing.

It Was At This Time That She Entirely Gave Up On Reading. The Covers Of Books Looked Like Coffins To Her, Either Shabby Or Ornate, And What Was Inside Them Might As Well Have Been Dust.