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But I Can Hardly Sit Still. I Keep Fidgeting, Crossing One Leg And Then The Other. I Feel Like I Could Throw Off Sparks, Or Break A Window--maybe Rearrange All The Furniture.

But He Stays By The Window, Remembering That Life. They Had Laughed. They Had Leaned On Each Other And Laughed Until The Tears Had Come, While Everything Else—the Cold And Where He'd Go In It—was Outside, For A While Anyway.

There Was A Time When I Thought I Loved My First Wife More Than Life Itself. But Now I Hate Her Guts. I Do. How Do You Explain That? What Happened To That Love? What Happened To It, Is What I'd Like To Know. I Wish Someone Could Tell Me.

In Short, Everything About His Life Was Different For Him At The Bottom Of That Well.

A Great Danger, Or At Least A Great Temptation, For Many Writers Is To Become Too Autobiographical In Their Approach To Their Fiction. A Little Autobiography And A Lot Of Imagination Are Best.