If You Want To Prove That God

Why Do I Write? I Guess That's Been Asked Of Every Writer. I Don't Know. It Isn't Any Massive Compulsion.

I'm Afraid That If I Started To Ponder Who I Am And What I Am, I Might Not Like What I Find.

A Word To The Wise To All The Children Of The Twentieth Century, Whether Their Concern Be Pediatrics Or Geriatrics, Whether They Crawl On Hands And Knees And Wear Diapers Or Walk With A Cane And Comb Their Beards. There's A Wondrous Magic To Christmas, And There's A Special Power Reserved For Little People. In Short, There's Nothing Mightier Than The Meek, And A Merry Christmas To Each And All.

Apparently On The Screen I Look Tall, Ageless, And Damned Close To Omniscient-delivering Jeopardy-laden Warnings Through Gritted Teeth. But When People See Me On The Street, They Say 'by God, This Kid Is 5 Foot 5, He's Got A Broken Nose, And Looks About As Foreboding As A Bank Teller On A Lunch Break.'

When I Dig Back Through Memory Cells, I Get One Particularly Distinctive Feeling-and That's One Of Warmth, Comfort And Well-being. For Whatever Else I May Have Had, Or Lost, Or Will Find-i've Still Got A Hometown. This, Nobody's Gonna Take Away From Me.