I Have A Painter's Memory. I Can

You'll See Some Bad Things, But If You Didn't See Them, They'd Still Be Happening.

There Was No Way To Grasp The Reality Of The Present Which Slid Away Each Second, Invisible As Air; Reality Only Existed After The Fact, In One's Vision Of The Past.

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.

Life Was An Impenetrable Mystery Cloaked In Babble.

I Taught Writing Classes At The University Of Pennsylvania For A Number Of Years And I Realized That All You Can Do Is Encourage People And Give Them Assignments And Hope They Will Write Them.