Ordinary Parties, He Thought, Were Subtle Games

It Takes A Year, Nephew... A Full Turn Of The Calendar, To Get Over Losing Someone.

I Didn't Have A Chance To Buy You Anything," She Said, Then Held Both Closed Hands Toward Him. Uncurled Her Fingers. In Each Cupped Palm A Brown Egg. He Took Them. They Were Cold. He Thought It A Tender, Wonderful Thing To Do. She Had Given Him Something, The Eggs, After All, Only A Symbol, But They Had Come From Her Hands As A Gift. To Him. It Didn't Matter That He'd Bought Them Himself At The Supermarket The Day Before. He Imagined She Understood Him, That She Had To Love Him To Know That It Was The Outstreched Hands, The Giving, That Mattered.

Develop Craftsmanship Through Years Of Wide Reading.

In A Rough Way The Short Story Writer Is To The Novelist As A Cabinetmaker Is To A House Carpenter.

No Wonder, He Thought, That The Panhandle People Were A Godly Lot, For They Lived In Sudden, Violent Atmospheres. Weather Kept Them Humble.