Much More Than Memoir; It's History.

But On The Other Hand, I Don't Actively Seek Out Stories Or Hunt Them Down.

Driving Home, It's All I Can Do To Keep From Crying. Time's Come, Time's Gone, Time's Never Returning, I Say To Myself. What's Here In Front Of Me Is All I've Got, I Decide, And As I Drive My Car Through The Blowing Snow It Doesn't Seem Like Much, Except For The Kindness That I've Just Exchanged With An Old Lady, So I Concentrate On That.

And There Are People Who Want To Be Writers Because They Love To Write. And They Care.

There Is A Wonderful Intelligence To The Unconscious. It’s Always Smarter Than We Are.

Our Sins Describe Us, And Our Prohibitions Describe Our Sins.