[l]et My Reader Who Is Puzzled By

In The Country Of The Story The Writer Is King.

The Sight Of One's Own Heart Is Degrading; People Are Not Meant To Look Inward - That's Why They've Been Given Bodies, To Hide Their Souls.

I Took My Coffee Into The Dining Room And Settled Down With The Morning Paper. A Woman In New York Had Had Twins In A Taxi. A Woman In Ohio Had Just Had Her Seventeenth Child. A Twelve-year-old Girl In Mexico Had Given Birth To A Thirteen-pound Boy. The Lead Article On The Woman's Page Was About How To Adjust The Older Child To The New Baby. I Finally Found An Account Of An Axe Murder On Page Seventeen, And Held My Coffee Cup Up To My Face To See If The Steam Might Revive Me.

I Very Much Dislike Writing About Myself Or My Work, And When Pressed For Autobiographical Material Can Only Give A Bare Chronological Outline Which Contains No Pertinent Facts.

Journeys End In Lovers Meeting; I Have Spent An All But Sleepless Night, I Have Told Lies And Made A Fool Of Myself, And The Very Air Tastes Like Wine. I Have Been Frightened Half Out Of My Foolish Wits, But I Have Somehow Earned This Joy; I Have Been Waiting For It For So Long.