You Know, It's Been Proven That 35

I'm Never A Fan Of The Sociopathic Kind Of Reviewing, People Who Are Sort Of Self-immolating And Have Social Problems Or Whatever, And Let It Out In Literary-criticism Form. I Just Feel Like Book Reviewing Should Be Respectful And Calm And Not Filled With Bile.

People Say I Talk Slowly. I Talk In A Way Sometimes Called Laconic. The Phone Rings, I Answer, And People Ask If They've Woken Me Up. I Lose My Way In The Middle Of Sentences, Leaving People Hanging For Minutes. I Have No Control Over It. I'll Be Talking, And Will Be Interested In What I'm Saying, But Then Someone-i'm Convinced This What Happens-someone-and I Wish I Knew Who, Because I Would Have Words For This Person-for A Short Time, Borrows My Head. Like A Battery Is Borrowed From A Calculator To Power A Remote Control, Someone, Always, Is Borrowing My Head.

I Publish My Own Books, So There Isn't A Certain Editor I Owe The Book To At A Publishing House.

I Love To Be Surprised Or Challenged Or Told That I Know Less Than I Thought That I Knew. I Know It's An Old Saw, But The Older I Get The Less I Know I Know.

Up There We See Everything, Oakland To The Left, El Cerrito And Richmond To The Right, Marin Forward, Over The Bay, Berkeley Below, All Red Rooftops And Trees Of Cauliflower And Columbine, Shaped Like Rockets And Explosions, All Those People Below Us, With Humbler Views; We See The Bay Bridge, Clunkety, The Richmond Bridge, Straight, Low, The Golden Gate, Red Toothpicks And String, The Blue Between, The Blue Above, The Gleaming White Land Of The Lost/superman's North Pole Getaway Magic Crystals That Are San Francisco.