Words [are] More Beautiful Than A Found

But The Body Fails Us And The Mirror Knows, And We No Longer Insist That The Gray Hush Be Carried Off Its Surface By The Cloth, For We Have Run To Fat, And Wrinkles Encircle The Eyes And Notch The Neck Where The Skin Wattles, And The Flesh Of The Arms Hangs Loose Like An Overlarge Sleeve, Veins Thicken Like Ropes And Empurple The Body As Though They Had Been Drawn There By A Pen, Freckles Darken, Liver Spots Appear, The Hairah, The Hair Is Exhausted And Gray And Lusterless, In Weary Rolls Like Cornered Lint.

We Converse As We Live By Repeating, By Combining And Recombining A Few Elements Over And Over Again Just As Nature Does When Of Elementary Particles It Builds A World.

For Me, The Short Story Is Not A Character Sketch, A Mouse Trap, An Epiphany, A Slice Of Suburban Life. It Is The Flowering Of A Symbol Center. It Is A Poem Grafted Onto Sturdier Stock.

When Book And Reader's Furrowed Brow Meet, It Isn't Always The Book That's Stupid.

Of Course There Is Enough To Stir Our Wonder Anywhere; There's Enough To Love, Anywhere, If One Is Strong Enough, If One Is Diligent Enough, If One Is Perceptive, Patient, Kind Enough -- Whatever It Takes.