My Father Wouldn't Let Me Take Typing

The Safe Places Could Only Be Visited; They Could Only Grant A Momentary Intuition Of Sanctuary. The Moment Always Came When We Had To Return To Our Real Life To Face The Wounds And Grief Indigenous To Our Homr By The River.

Fantasy Is One Of The Soul's Brighter Porcelains.

Rape Is A Crime Against Sleep And Memory; It's Afterimage Imprints Itself Like An Irreversible Negative From The Camera Obscura Of Dreams.

Books Are Living Things And Their Task Lies In Their Vows Of Silence. You Touch Them As They Quiver With A Divine Pleasure. You Read Them And They Fall Asleep To Happy Dreams For The Next 10 Years. If You Do Them The Favor Of Understanding Them, Of Taking In Their Portions Of Grief And Wisdom, Then They Settle Down In Contented Residence In Your Heart.

My Mother Thought Of My Father As Half Barbarian And Half Blunt Instrument, And She Isolated Him From His Children.