In My View, Nineteen Pounds Of Old

I Can Imagine Few Worse Fates Than Walking Around For The Rest Of One's Life Wearing A Typo.

Muses Are Fickle, And Many A Writer, Peering Into The Voice, Has Escaped Paralysis By Ascribing The Creative Responsibility To A Talisman: A Lucky Charm, A Brand Of Paper, But Most Often A Writing Instrument. Am I Writing Well? Thank My Pen. Am I Writing Badly? Don't Blame Me Blame My Pen. By Such Displacements Does The Fearful Imagination Defend Itself.

My Daughter Is Seven, And Some Of The Other Second-grade Parents Complain That Their Children Don't Read For Pleasure. When I Visit Their Homes, The Children's Rooms Are Crammed With Expensive Books, But The Parent's Rooms Are Empty. Those Children Do Not See Their Parents Reading, As I Did Every Day Of My Childhood. By Contrast, When I Walk Into An Apartment With Books On The Shelves, Books On The Bedside Tables, Books On The Floor, And Books On The Toilet Tank, Then I Know What I Would See If I Opened The Door That Says 'private--grownups Keep Out': A Child Sprawled On The Bed, Reading.

One Reason We Have Children I Think Is To Learn That Parts Of Ourselves We Had Given Up For Dead Are Merely Dormant And That The Old Joys Can Re Emerge Fresh And New And In A Completely Different Form.

I'd Rather Have A Book, But In A Pinch I'll Settle For A Set Of Water Pik Instructions.