I Guess My Writing Has Changed As

There Isn't Enough Of Anything As Long As We Live. But At Intervals A Sweetness Appears And, Given A Chance Prevails.

It Ought To Make Us Feel Ashamed When We Talk Like We Know What We're Talking About When We Talk About Love.

If We're Lucky, Writer And Reader Alike, We'll Finish The Last Line Or Two Of A Short Story And Then Just Sit For A Minute, Quietly. Ideally, We'll Ponder What We've Just Written Or Read; Maybe Our Hearts Or Intellects Will Have Been Moved Off The Peg Just A Little From Where They Were Before. Our Body Temperature Will Have Gone Up, Or Down, By A Degree. Then, Breathing Evenly And Steadily Once More, We'll Collect Ourselves, Writers And Readers Alike, Get Up, "created Of Warm Blood And Nerves" As A Chekhov Character Puts It, And Go On To The Next Thing: Life. Always Life.

I've Done As Many As 20 Or 30 Drafts Of A Story. Never Less Than 10 Or 12 Drafts.

We Knew Our Days Were Numbered. We Had Fouled Up Our Lives And We Were Getting Ready For A Shake-up.