The Strange Thing Was, He Wanted To

Hemingway Said The Only Way To Write About A Place Is To Leave It.

To Deny That There Was This Dark Side Of Life Would Be Like Pretending That The Cold Of Winter Was Somehow Only A Temporary Illusion, A Way Station On The Way To The Higher "reality" Of Long, Warm, Pleasant Summers. But Summer, It Turned Out, Was No More Real Than The Snow That Melted In Wintertime.

I Have Traveled The Entire State And Spent A Lot Of Time Out Of Doors. So I Have Known The Landscape Of The Columbia Basin For Quite A While, And I Have Had This Strong Feeling About It For Many Years.

At One Level You're Condemned To The Voice You Have. But Within Those Confines, You Have A Certain Amount Of Freedom To Range Among Your Possible Voices.

He Decided Then That He Would Love Her Forever No Matter What Came To Pass. It Was Not So Much A Matter Of Deciding As Accepting The Inevitability Of It. It Made Him Feel Better, Though He Felt Perturbed, Too, Worried That This Kiss Was Wrong. But From His Point Of View, At Fourteen Years Old, Their Love Was Entirely Unavoidable. It Had Started On The Day They'd Clung To His Glass Box And Kissed In The Sea, And Now It Must Go On Forever. He Felt Certain Of This.