To Be Human Is To Be In

The Language Of Labels Is Like Paper Money, Issued Irresponsibly, With Nothing Of Intrinsic Value Behind It, That Is, With No Effort Of The Intelligence To See, To Really Apprehend.

A Lie Hides The Truth. A Story Tries To Find It.

My Father Brought Me A Box Of Books Once When I Was About Three And A Half Or Four. I Remember The Carton They Were In And The Covers With Illustrations By Newell C. Wyeth.

In My Early Twenties, That's When I Really Began To Write. Before That, I Was Too Busy Working, Keeping Myself Going.

Life Was An Impenetrable Mystery Cloaked In Babble.