My Job Is To Have Empathy And

Marry Somebody You Love And Who Thinks You Being A Writer's A Good Idea.

They May Already Know Too Much About Their Mother And Father--nothing Being More Factual Than Divorce, Where So Much Has To Be Explained And Worked Through Intelligently (though They Have Tried To Stay Equable). I've Noticed This Is Often The Time When Children Begin Calling Their Parents By Their First Names, Becoming Little Ironists After Their Parents' Faults. What Could Be Lonelier For A Parent Than To Be Criticized By His Child On A First-name Basis?

It Is No Loss To Mankind When One Writer Decides To Call It A Day. When A Tree Falls In The Forest, Who Cares But The Monkeys?

I'm Dyslexic. If You Can Reconcile Yourself To Not Being Able To Burn Through Books, Which You Shouldn't Any Way, You Can Slow The Whole Process Down. Then, Because Of My Disability, There Is More For Me In Imaginative Literature Than There Is For Other People.

Construed As Turf, Home Just Seems A Provisional Claim, A Designation You Make Upon A Place, Not One It Makes On You. A Certain Set Of Buildings, A Glimpsed, Smudged Window-view Across A Schoolyard, A Musty Aroma Sniffed Behind A Garage When You Were A Child, All Of Which Come Crowding In Upon Your Latter-day Senses -- Those Are Pungent Things And Vivid, Even Consoling. But To Me They Are Also Inert And Nostalgic And Unlikely To Connect You To The Real, To That Essence Art Can Sometimes Achieve, Which Is Permanence.