She Always Carried A Book, Though, In

I Know I Don't Need Him, But I Think I Want Him.

What I'm Certain I Don't Want Is To Find Myself Someday In A New Century, An Old Bitter Woman Looking Back, Wishing That Right Now I'd Had More Nerve.

Our Worst Pain Is Confined Within Our Own Skin.

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.

There Was A Redemption Of Some Kind, He Believed, In Such Complete Fulfillment Of A Desire So Long Deferred.