All I Could Think Of When I

Dad And I Did Not Care At All For Your Story In The New Yorker … [i]t Does Seem, Dear, That This Gloomy Kind Of Story Is What All You Young People Think About These Days. Why Don't You Write Something To Cheer People Up?

February, When The Days Of Winter Seem Endless And No Amount Of Wistful Recollecting Can Bring Back Any Air Of Summer.

I Delight In What I Fear.

I Have Often Thought That With Any Luck At All I Could Have Been Born A Werewolf, Because The Two Middle Fingers On Both My Hands Are The Same Length, But I Have Had To Be Content With What I Had.

In The Country Of The Story The Writer Is King.