He Pressed His Face Into The Fabric

But The Only Rhyme He Could Summon For 'out' Was 'sauerkraut,' Which Lacked Poetic Glory. He Let It Go. The Right Line Would Come In Time. That Was The Thing About Poetry. It Crept Up Through The Draws And Coulees Of The Brain.

What I Find To Be Very Bad Advice Is The Snappy Little Sentence, 'write What You Know.' It Is The Most Tiresome And Stupid Advice That Could Possibly Be Given. If We Write Simply About What We Know We Never Grow. We Don't Develop Any Facility For Languages, Or An Interest In Others, Or A Desire To Travel And Explore And Face Experience Head-on. We Just Coil Tighter And Tighter Into Our Boring Little Selves. What One Should Write About Is What Interests One.

Was Love Then Like A Bag Of Assorted Sweets Passed Around From Which One Might Choose More Than Once? Some Might Sting The Tongue, Some Invoke Night Perfume. Some Had Centers As Bitter As Gall, Some Blended Honey And Poison, Some Were Quickly Swallowed. And Among The Common Bull's-eyes And Peppermints A Few Rare Ones; One Or Two With Deadly Needles At The Heart, Another That Brought Clam And Gentle Pleasure. Were His Fingers Closing On That One?

... There Are Four Women In Every Man’s Heart. The Maid In The Meadow, The Demon Lover, The Stouthearted Woman, The Tall And Quiet Woman.

If Life Was An Arc Of Light That Began In Darkness, Ended In Darkness, The First Part Of His Life Had Happened In Ordinary Glare. Here It Was As Though He Had Found A Polarized Lens That Deepened And Intensified All Seen Through It.