Everything Was Screaming: The Sea, The Wind,

I Preferred To Set Off And Perish In Search Of My Own Kind Than To Live A Lonely Half-life Of Physical Comfort And Spiritual Death On This Murderous Island.

I Meet A Number Of People As A Writer Of Fiction Who Say "oh, I Don't Read Much Fiction," As If The History Of The United States, Just As An Example, Isn't An Exercise In Storytelling And Myth-making.

It Was A Huge Zoo, Spread Over Numberless Acres, Big Enough To Require A Train To Explore It, Though It Seemed To Get Smaler As I Grew Older, Train Included. Now It's So Small It Fits In My Head.

I Can Well Imagine An Athiest's Last Words: "white, White! L-l-love! My God!" - And The Deathbed Leap Of Faith. Whereas The Agnostic, If He Stays True To His Reasonable Self, If He Stays Beholden To Dry, Yeastless Factuality, Might Try To Explain The Warm Light Bathing Him By Saying "possibly A F-f-failing Oxygenation Of The B-b-brain," And, To The Very End, Lack Imagination And Miss The Better Story.

As For Hearing, The Sloth Is Not So Much Deaf As Uninterested In Sound.