I Can't Play Bridge. I Don't Play

Moments Of Kindness And Reconciliation Are Worth Having, Even If The Parting Has To Come Sooner Or Later.

She Keeps On Hoping From A Word From Penelope, But Not In Any Strenuous Way. She Hopes As People Who Know Better Hope For Undeserved Blessings, Spontaneous Remissions, Things Of That Sort.

I Sit Watching The Brown Oceanic Waves Of Dry Country Rising Into The Foothills And I Weep Monotonously, Seasickly. Life Is Not Like The Dim Ironic Stories I Like To Read, It Is Like A Daytime Serial On Television. The Banality Will Make You Weep As Much As Anything Else.

I Would Really Hope This Would Make People See The Short Story As An Important Art, Not Just Something You Played Around With Until You Got A Novel.

People Are Curious. A Few People Are. ... They Will Put Things Together, Knowing All Along That They May Be Mistaken. You See Them Going Around With Notebooks, Scraping The Dirt Off Gravestones, Reading Microfilm, Just In The Hope Of Seeing This Trickle In Time, Making A Connection, Rescuing One Thing From The Rubbish.