The Truth Came Slowly Like A Story

I Was The Goldfish That Leapt Out Of The Bowl.

I Don't Know What Makes A Writer's Voice. It's Dozens Of Things. There Are People Who Write Who Don't Have It. They're Tone-deaf, Even Though They're Very Fluent. It's An Ability, Like Anything Else, Being A Doctor Or A Veterinarian, Or A Musician.

Labels Not Only Free Us From The Obligation To Think Creatively; They Numb Our Sensibilities, Our Power To Feel. During The Vietnam War, The Phrase Body Count Entered Our Vocabulary. It Is An Ambiguous Phrase, Inorganic, Even Faintly Sporty. It Distanced Us From The Painful Reality Of Corpses, Of Dead, Mutilated People.

The Truth Came Slowly Like A Story Told By People Interrupting Each Other.

And What Movies We Saw! All The Actors And Actresses Whose Photographs I Collected, With Their Look Of Eternity! Their Radiance, Their Eyes, Their Faces, Their Voices, The Suavity Of Their Movements! Their Clothes! Even In Prison Movies, The Stars Shone In Their Prison Clothes As If Tailors Had Accompanied Them In Their Downfall.