I Still Write In Long Hand. I

My Mother Thought Of My Father As Half Barbarian And Half Blunt Instrument, And She Isolated Him From His Children.

My Father Wouldn't Let Me Take Typing In Childhood.

Her Laughter Was A Shiny Thing, Like Pewter Flung High In The Air.

... Silence (can) Be The Most Eloquent Form Of Lying.

The World Of Literature Has Everything In It, And It Refuses To Leave