I Hate To Cook And Love To

... Every Time You Look At The World And The People In It Closely, Lovingly, Imaginatively, It Changes You. The World, Under The Microscope Of Your Attention, Opens Up Like A Beautiful, Strange Flower And Gives Itself Back To You In Ways You Could Never Imagine.

Seasons Passed, Fall And Winter And Spring And Summer. Leaves Blew In Through The Open Door Of Lucius Clarke’s Shop, And Rain, And The Green Outrageous Hopeful Light Of Spring. People Came And Went, Grandmothers And Doll Collectors And Little Girls With Their Mothers. Edward Tulane Waited. The Seasons Turned Into Years. Edward Tulane Waited. He Repeated The Old Doll’s Words Over And Over Until They Wore A Smooth Groove Of Hope In His Brain: Someone Will Come; Someone Will Come For You.

Love, As We Have Already Discussed, Is A Powerful, Wonderful, Ridiculous Thing, Capable Of Moving Mountains. And Spools Of Thread.

No One Cared What She Wanted. No One Had Ever Cared. And Perhaps, Worst Of All, No One Ever Would Care.

Everything I Write Comes From My Childhood In One Way Or Another. I Am Forever Drawing On The Sense Of Mystery And Wonder And Possibility That Pervaded That Time Of My Life.