Fear . . . Is Forward. No

My Dislike Has No Consequences. It Accrues Only In My Mind—like Preserves On A Shelf Or Guns Zeroing In, And Never Firing.

Being Neurotic Seemed To Be A Kind Of Wild Card, An All-purpose Explanation.

And Then There Were The Wallflowers Who Had Recognized For Years That The Thing Was Hopeless, Who Had Found In That Information A Kind Of Calm. They No Longer Tried, With A Bright And Desperate Effort, To Sustain A Conversation With Somebody's Brother, Somebody's Usher, Somebody's Roommate, Somebody's Roommate's Usher's Brother... The Category Of Wallflower Who Had Given Up On All This Was Very Quiet, Not Indifferent, Only Quiet. And She Always Brought A Book.

That 'writers Write' Is Meant To Be Self-evident. People Like To Say It. I Find It Is Hardly Ever True. Writers Drink. Writers Rant. Writers Phone. Writers Sleep. I Have Met Very Few Writers Who Write At All.

Hardly Anyone About Whom I Deeply Care At All Resembles Anyone Else I Have Ever Met, Or Heard Of, Or Read About In Literature.