Writing Doesn't Come Real Easy To Me.

From My Childhood, I Remember A Tiny Old Woman Named Mary, Made Pale And Almost Translucent By Time. Mary's Childhood Memories Extended Back To The Confusing And Violent Finale Of The Civil War, And She Told Stories Of Brutal Murders In Those Days And Refused To Name Some Of The Killers, As If Dead Men Might Still Be Prosecuted In The Late 1950s.

People Who Are Isolated Interest Me, Whether They Isolate Themselves Or Have Been Isolated By Circumstances.

Or Maybe It Is Only That We Are So Habitually Inattentive That When Some Rare But Simple Geometry Grabs Us By The Shoulders And Shakes Us Into Consciousness, We Call Our Response Sacred.

She Wondered If Literature Might Lose Some Of Its Interest When She Reached An Age Or State Of Mind Where Her Life Was Set On Such A Sure Course That The Things She Read Might Stop Seeming So Powerfully Like Alternate Directions For Her Being.

That's Just Pain She Said. It Goes Eventually. And When It's Gone, There's No Lasting Memory. Not The Worst Of It Anyway. It Fades. Our Minds Aren't Made To Hold On To The Particulars Of Pain The Way We Do Bliss. It's A Gift God Gives Us, A Sign Of His Care For Us.