Fear Tastes Like A Rusty Knife And

The World That Was Not Mine Yesterday Now Lies Spread Out At My Feet, A Splendor. I Seem, In The Middle Of The Night, To Have Returned To The World Of Apples, The Orchards Of Heaven. Perhaps I Should Take My Problems To A Shrink, Or Perhaps I Should Enjoy The Apples That I Have, Streaked With Color Like The Evening Sky.

The Constants That I Look For Are A Love Of Light And A Determination To Trace Some Moral Chain Of Being.

Homesickness Is . . . Absolutely Nothing. Fifty Percent Of The People In The World Are Homesick All The Time. . . . You Don't Really Long For Another Country. You Long For Something In Yourself That You Don't Have, Or Haven't Been Able To Find.

I Believe That Writing Is An Account Of The Powers Of Extrication.

Sometimes The Easiest-seeming Stories To A Reader Are The Hardest Kind To Write.