I Woke To The Sound Of Rain.

The Door Of The Novel, Like The Door Of The Poem, Also Shuts. But Not So Fast, Nor With Such Manic, Unanswerable Finality.

It Was Sometime In October; She Had Long Ago Lost Track Of All The Days And It Really Didn’t Matter Because One Was Like Another And There Were No Nights To Separate Them Because She Never Slept Any More.

My Life Is A Discipline, A Prison: I Live For My Own Work, Without Which I Am Nothing.

I Felt The First Man I Slept With Must Be Intelligent, So I Could Respect Him.

Can A Selfish Egocentric Jealous And Unimaginative Female Write A Damn Thing Worthwhile?