Love Is The Use One Makes Of

I Think Precision In Writing Goes Hand In Hand With Not Trying To Say Everything. You Try And Say Two-thirds, So The Reader Will Involve Himself Or Herself.

Kirpal's Left Hand Swoops Down And Catches The Dropped Fork An Inch From The Floor And Gently Passes It Into The Fingers Of His Daughter, A Wrinkle At The Edge Of His Eyes Behind His Spectacles.

She Had Lived In That House Fourteen Years, And Every Year She Had Demanded Of John That She Be Given A Pet Of Some Strange Exotic Breed. Not That She Did Not Have Enough Animals. She Had Collected Several Wild And Broken Animals That, In A Way, Had Become Exotic By Their Breaking. Their Roof Would Have Collapsed From The Number Of Birds Who Might Have Lived There If The Desert Hadn't Killed Three- Quarters Of Those That Tried To Cross It. Still Every Animal That Came Within A Certain Radius Of That House Was Given A Welcome-the Tame, The Half Born, The Wild, The Wounded.

There Is A Story, Always Ahead Of You. Barely Existing. Only Gradually Do You Attach Yourself To It And Feed It. You Discover The Carapace That Will Contain And Test Your Character. You Will Find In This Way The Path Of Your Life.

Half A Page--and The Morning Is Already Ancient.