I Have A Painter's Memory. I Can

My Father Brought Me A Box Of Books Once When I Was About Three And A Half Or Four. I Remember The Carton They Were In And The Covers With Illustrations By Newell C. Wyeth.

My Life Was Incoherent To Me. I Felt It Quivering, Spitting Out Broken Teeth.

The Language Of Labels Is Like Paper Money, Issued Irresponsibly, With Nothing Of Intrinsic Value Behind It, That Is, With No Effort Of The Intelligence To See, To Really Apprehend.

And What Movies We Saw! All The Actors And Actresses Whose Photographs I Collected, With Their Look Of Eternity! Their Radiance, Their Eyes, Their Faces, Their Voices, The Suavity Of Their Movements! Their Clothes! Even In Prison Movies, The Stars Shone In Their Prison Clothes As If Tailors Had Accompanied Them In Their Downfall.

When There's A Terrible Murder People Who Are Interviewed Say, 'this Has Always Been A Quiet Neighborhood.' That Is So Dumb And Uninformed! The Earth Is Not A Quiet Neighborhood. There Isn't Anyplace That's A Quiet Neighborhood. People Are Asking Themselves How To Stay Neat In The Cyclone.