Wherever We Go We Do Harm, Forgiving

I Remember My Grandfather Telling Me How Each Of Us Must Live With A Full Measure Of Loneliness That Is Inescapable, And We Must Not Destroy Ourselves With Our Passion To Escape The Aloneness.

Wherever We Go We Do Harm, Forgiving Ourselves As Wheels Do Cement For Wearing Each Other Out. We Set This House On Fire, Forgetting That We Live Within. (from "to A Meadowlark," For M.l. Smoker)

As An English Major I Was Familiar With The Stories Of Dozens Of Writers Trying To Get Their Work Done Among The Multifarious Diversions Of The World And The Hurdles Of Their Own Vices. A Professor Had Said That What Saved Writers Is That They, Like Politicians, Had The Illusion Of Destiny That Allowed Them To Overcome Obstacles No Matter How Nominal Their Work.

I Thought, Frankly, That It Would Be More Pleasant To Write A Memoir Than It Was.

The Answer Is Always In The Entire Story, Not A Piece Of It.