The Real Name For 'science' Is Magic.

People On The Outside Think There's Something Magical About Writing, That You Go Up In The Attic At Midnight And Cast The Bones And Come Down In The Morning With A Story, But It Isn't Like That. You Sit In Back Of The Typewriter And You Work, And That's All There Is To It.

And We Passed Through The Cavern Of Rats. And We Passed Through The Path Of Boiling Steam. And We Passed Through The Country Of The Blind. And We Passed Through The Slough Of Despond. And We Passed Through The Vale Of Tears. And We Came, Finally, To The Ice Caverns.

The Trap Into Which All Writers Have, Will, Or Should Fall Into, Of Writing The Great American Watchamacallit, Is Such An Uncluttered And Inviting One That From Time To Time I'm Sure Even The Greatest Have To Pull Themselves Up Short By The Shift Key To Remind Themselves That It Is Story First That They Should Write.

There In The Midst Of The Amazon Jungle, Simon Haskell Has Cobbled Up For Himself A Replica Of An Art Deco Salon.

We Walked For Some Time, And Grew To Know Each Other, As Best As We'd Allow. These Are Some Of The High Points. They Lack Continuity. I Don't Apologize. I Merely Pointed It Out, Adding With Some Truth, I Feel, That Most Liaisons Lack Continuity. We Find Ourselves In Odd Places At Various Times, And For A Brief Span We Link Our Lives To Others And Then, Our Time Elapsed, We Move Apart. Through A Haze Of Pain Occasionally, Usually Through A Veil Of Memory That Clings, Then Passes, Sometimes As Though We Have Never Touched.