But What Really Happened? The Answer Is

I Believe The Novella Is The Perfect Form Of Prose Fiction. It Is The Beautiful Daughter Of A Rambling, Bloated Ill-shaven Giant (but A Giant Who's A Genius On His Best Days).

She Sleepwalked From Moment To Moment, And Whole Months Slipped By Without Memory, Without Bearing The Faintest Imprint Of Her Conscious Will.

Twenty Years Ago I Might Have Hired A Professional Listener, But Somewhere Along The Way I Had Lost Faith In The Talking Cure. A Genteel Fraud In My View.

...beauty, She Had Discovered Occupied A Narrow Band. Ugliness, On The Hand, Had Infinite Variation.

From This New And Intimate Perspective, She Learned A Simple, Obvious Thing She Had Always Known, And Everyone Knew; That A Person Is, Among All Else, A Material Thing, Easily Torn, Not Easily Mended.