He Is By Nature A Vegetarian But

Literature, Like Magic, Has Always Been About The Handling Of Secrets, About The Pain, The Destruction, And The Marvelous Liberation That Can Result When They Are Revealed. If A Writer Doesn't Give Away Secrets, His Own Or Those Of The People He Loves, If He Doesn't Court Disapproval, Reproach And General Wrath, Whether Of Friends, Family Or Party Apparatchiks... The Result Is Pallid, Inanimate, A Lump Of Earth.

She Was A Natural Blonde, With Delicate Hands And Feet, And In Her Youthful Photographs One Saw A Girl With Mocking Eyes And A Tragic Smile, The Course Of Whose Life Would Conspire In Time To Transpose That Pair Of Adjectives.

That Evening I Rode Downtown On An Unaccountably Empty Bus, Sitting In The Last Row. At The Front I Saw A Thin Cloud Of Smoke Rising Around The Driver’s Head. ‘hey, Bus Driver,’ I Said. ‘can I Smoke?’ ‘may I,’ Said The Bus Driver. ‘i Love You,’ I Said.

We Have The Idea That Our Hearts, Once Broken, Scar Over With An Indestructible Tissue That Prevents Their Ever Breaking Again In Quite The Same Place.

There Were So Many Pittsburgh Poets In My Hallway That If, At That Instant, A Meteorite Had Come Smashing Through My Roof, There Would Never Have Been Another Stanza Written About Rusting Fathers And Impotent Steelworkers And The Bessemer Convertor Of Love.