I Felt In Him What Women Feel

Anecdotes Don't Make Good Stories. Generally I Dig Down Underneath Them So Far That The Story That Finally Comes Out Is Not What People Thought Their Anecdotes Were About.

I Sit Watching The Brown Oceanic Waves Of Dry Country Rising Into The Foothills And I Weep Monotonously, Seasickly. Life Is Not Like The Dim Ironic Stories I Like To Read, It Is Like A Daytime Serial On Television. The Banality Will Make You Weep As Much As Anything Else.

He Was Evidently The Sort Of Person Who Posed Questions That Were Traps For You To Fall Into.

Children Of Course Are Monstrously Conventional, Repelled At Once By Whatever Is Off-center, Out Of Whack, Unmanageable. And Being An Only Child I Had Been Coddled A Good Deal (also Scolded). I Was Awkward, Precocious, Timid, Full Of My Private Rituals And Aversions.

A Story ... Has A Sturdy Sense Of Itself Of Being Built Out Of Its Own Necessity, Not Just To Shelter Or Beguile You.