Never Say Love Is "like" Anything... It

A Story Begins With This Nebulous Feeling That’s Hard To Get A Hold Of And You’re Testing Your Feelings And Assumptions, Testing What You Believe. They End Up Turning Into Keepsakes And Mementos –like Amber In Which A Memory Gets Trapped.

I Suppose There Is Something Appealing About A Word That Everyone Uses With Absolute Confidence But On Whose Exact Meaning No Two People Can Agree. The Word That I'm Thinking Of Right Now Is Genre, One Of Those French Words, Like Crêpe, That No One Can Pronounce Both Correctly And Without Sounding Pretentious.

A Delicate, Inexorable Lattice Of Inferences Began To Assemble Themselves, Like A Crystal, In The Old Man's Mind, Shivering, Catching The Light In Glints And Surmises.

Rueful, Bittersweet, Funny, Written With Tenderness And Bite, Merrill Feitell's Stories, Like So Many Classic Short Stories, Are Made From The Plain And Painful Stuff Of This World, And Haunted By The Possibility, And The Impossibility, Of A Better One.

I Have Confused Ideas Of Deity, Heavily Influenced By Mind-altering Years Of Reading Science Fiction, That Do Not Often Trouble Me, But One Thing I Know For Certain, And Have Known Since The Age Of Five Or Six, Is That I Really Can't Stand The God Of Abraham. In Fact, I Consider Him To Constitute The Pattern To Which Every True Asshole I Have Ever Known In My Life Has Pretty Well Conformed.