I Still Write In Long Hand. I

The Safe Places Could Only Be Visited; They Could Only Grant A Momentary Intuition Of Sanctuary. The Moment Always Came When We Had To Return To Our Real Life To Face The Wounds And Grief Indigenous To Our Homr By The River.

From The Very Beginning, I Wrote To Explain My Own Life To Myself, And I Invited Any Readers Who Chose To Make The Journey With Me To Join Me On The High Wire.

Love's Action. It Isn't Talk And It Never Has Been.

Books Are Living Things And Their Task Lies In Their Vows Of Silence. You Touch Them As They Quiver With A Divine Pleasure. You Read Them And They Fall Asleep To Happy Dreams For The Next 10 Years. If You Do Them The Favor Of Understanding Them, Of Taking In Their Portions Of Grief And Wisdom, Then They Settle Down In Contented Residence In Your Heart.

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