It’s Just Life. You Can’t Beat Life.

I Began To Understand That There Were Certain Talkers - Certain Girls - Whom People Liked To Listen To, Not Because Of What They, The Girls, Had To Say, But Because Of The Delight They Took In Saying It. A Delight In Themselves, A Shine On Their Faces, A Conviction That Whatever They Were Telling About Was Remarkable And That They Themselves Could Not Help But Give Pleasure. There Might Be Other People - People Like Me - Who Didn't Concede This, But That Was Their Loss. And People Like Me Would Never Be The Audience These Girls Were After, Anyway.

Children Of Course Are Monstrously Conventional, Repelled At Once By Whatever Is Off-center, Out Of Whack, Unmanageable. And Being An Only Child I Had Been Coddled A Good Deal (also Scolded). I Was Awkward, Precocious, Timid, Full Of My Private Rituals And Aversions.

I Don't Always, Or Even Usually, Read Stories From Beginning To End. I Start Anywhere And Proceed In Either Direction. A Story Is Not Like A Road To Follow, It's More Like A House. You Go Inside And Stay There For A While.

In Your Life There Are A Few Places, Or Maybe Only The One Place, Where Something Happened, And Then There Are All The Other Places.

But I Never Cleaned Thoroughly Enough, My Reorganization Proved To Be Haphazard, The Disgraces Came Unfailingly To Light, And It Was Clear How We Failed, How Disastrously We Fell Short Of That Ideal Of Order And Cleanliness, Household Decency Which I As Much As Anybody Else Believed In.