I Don't Think I Look Like The

The Words And Sentences You Take Into Your Body From Books Are No Less Sacred And Healing Than Communion. Surely At Least One Such Person Lives In Your Zip Code.

The Lesson You've Got To Learn Is The Someday You'll Someday Stagger To, Blinking In Cold Light, All Tears Shed, Ready To Poke Your Bovine Head In The Yoke They've Shaped. Everyone Learns This. Born, Everyone Breathes, Pays Tax, Plants Dead And Hurts Galore. There's Grief Enough For Each. My Mother Learned By Moving Man To Man, Outlived Them All. The Parched Earth's Bare (once She Leaves It) Of Any Who Watched The Instants I Trod It. Other Than Myself, Of Course. I've Made A Study Of Bearing And Forbearance. Everyone Does, It Turns Out, And Note Those Faces Passing By: Not One's A God.

For Me, Everything's Too Much And Nothing's Enough.

I'm Not Nearly Smart Enough Or Imaginative Enough To Tackle The Novel Form. Never Happen.

If You Lie To Your Husband - Even About Something So Banal As How Much You Drink - Each Lie Is A Brick In A Wall Going Up Between You, And When He Tells You He Loves You, It's Deflected Away.