It Is A Grave Error To Assume

It Is A Grave Error To Assume That Ice Cream Consumption Requires Hot Weather.

My Brother And I Were Able To Fantasize Far More Extravagantly About Our Parents' Tastes And Desires, Their Aspirations And Their Vices, By Scanning Their Bookcases Than By Snooping In Their Closest. Their Selves Were On Their Shelves.

Something Amazing Happens When The Rest Of The World Is Sleeping. I Am Glued To My Chair. I Forget That I Ever Wanted To Do Anything But Write. The Crowded City, The Crowded Apartment, And The Crowded Calendar Suddenly Seem Spacious. Three Or Four Hours Pass In A Moment; I Have No Idea What Time It Is, Because I Never Check The Clock. If I Chose To Listen, I Could Hear The Swish Of Taxis Bound For Downtown Bars Or The Soft Saxophone Riffs That Drift From A Neighbor's Window, But Nothing Gets Through. I Am Suspended In A Sensory Deprivation Tank, And The Very Lack Of Sensation Is Delicious.

Some Friends Of Theirs Had Rented Their House For Several Months To An Interior Decorator. When They Returned, They Discovered That Their Entire Library Had Been Reorganized By Color And Size. Shortly Thereafter, The Decorator Met With A Fatal Automobile Accident. I Confess That When This Story Was Told, Everyone Around The Dinner Table Concurred That Justice Had Been Served.

Muses Are Fickle, And Many A Writer, Peering Into The Voice, Has Escaped Paralysis By Ascribing The Creative Responsibility To A Talisman: A Lucky Charm, A Brand Of Paper, But Most Often A Writing Instrument. Am I Writing Well? Thank My Pen. Am I Writing Badly? Don't Blame Me Blame My Pen. By Such Displacements Does The Fearful Imagination Defend Itself.