The Story Fails But Your Faith In

Luck Took Me Right Out Of Myself - I Read It In One Gulp, And It Never Let Me Down. Sharp And Surprising But Always Responsible, No Tricks For Tricks' Sake; So Satisfying, With Its Shifting And Puzzles. So Much Fiction Turns Out To Be Diversion, In Spite Of Fancy Claims, And Doesn't Really Look At Anything. Well - This Does.

It's Not Possible To Advise A Young Writer Because Every Young Writer Is So Different. You Might Say, "read," But A Writer Can Read Too Much And Be Paralyzed. Or, "don't Read, Don't Think, Just Write," And The Result Could Be A Mountain Of Drivel. If You're Going To Be A Writer You'll Probably Take A Lot Of Wrong Turns And Then One Day Just End Up Writing Something You Have To Write, Then Getting It Better And Better Just Because You Want It To Be Better, And Even When You Get Old And Think, "there Must Be Something Else People Do," You Won't Be Able To Quit.

She Keeps On Hoping From A Word From Penelope, But Not In Any Strenuous Way. She Hopes As People Who Know Better Hope For Undeserved Blessings, Spontaneous Remissions, Things Of That Sort.

Peoples Lives, In Jubilee As Elsewhere, Were Dull, Simple, Amazing, Unfathomable-deep Caves Paved With Kitchen Linoleum. . . . What I Wanted [to Write Down] Was Every Last Thing, Every Layer Of Speech And Thought, Stroke Of Light On Bark Or Walls, Every Smell, Pothole, Pain, Crack, Delusion, Held Still And Held Together-radiant, Everlasting.

As Soon As A Man And Woman Of Almost Any Age Are Alone Together Within Four Walls It Is Assumed That Anything May Happen. Spontaneous Combustion, Instant Fornication, Triumph Of The Senses. What Possibilities Men And Women Must See In Each Other To Infer Such Dangers. Or, Believing In The Dangers, How Often They Must Think About The Possibilities.