Our Worst Pain Is Confined Within Our

From My Childhood, I Remember A Tiny Old Woman Named Mary, Made Pale And Almost Translucent By Time. Mary's Childhood Memories Extended Back To The Confusing And Violent Finale Of The Civil War, And She Told Stories Of Brutal Murders In Those Days And Refused To Name Some Of The Killers, As If Dead Men Might Still Be Prosecuted In The Late 1950s.

Marrying A Woman For Her Beauty Makes No More Sense Than Eating A Bird For Its Singing. But It's A Common Mistake Nonetheless.

Publishers Give You Deadlines For Those Last Phases Of Production That Are Perfectly Comfortable For Them. So, To Whatever Extent I Can, I Like To Push Those To Give Me A Little More Time, And Make It So That They're As Uncomfortable As I Am.

Needing And Getting Don’t Seem Likely To Match Up Any Time Soon... What Needs Doing Is Mine To Do.

Ask Her What She Craved, And She'd Get A Little Frantic About Things Like Books, The Woods, Music. Plants And The Seasons. Also Freedom. Not Being Bought And Sold By Some Idiot Employer, Not Having The Moments Of Her Days Valued In Fractions Of A Dollar By Somebody Other Than Herself.