The Solitude Of Writing Is A Solitude

One Must Talk. That's How It Is. One Must.

The House A Woman Creates Is A Utopia. She Can't Help It - Can't Help Trying To Interest Her Nearest And Dearest Not In Happiness Itself But In The Search For It.

She Says People Ought To Learn To Live Like Them, With The Body Abandoned In A Wilderness, And In The Mind The Memory Of A Single Kiss, A Single Word, A Single Look To Stand For A Whole Love.

We, Her Children, Are Heroic, Dersperate.

Perhaps Someone Will Have Seen Mine, The One I’m Waiting For, Just As I Saw Him, In A Ditch When His Hands Were Making Their Last Appeal And His Eyes No Longer Could See. Someone Who Will Never Know What That Man Was To Me; Someone Whose Name I’ll Never Know.