Evil Would Always Come To Me Disguised

A Story Is A Living Thing, It Moves And Shifts.

In Charleston, More Than Elsewhere, You Get The Feeling That The Twentieth Century Is A Vast, Unconscionable Mistake.

Once You Have Traveled, The Voyage Never Ends.

Love Had Always Issued Out Of The Places That Hurt The Most.

My Mother, Southern To The Bone, Once Told Me, “all Southern Literature Can Be Summed Up In These Words: ‘on The Night The Hogs Ate Willie, Mama Died When She Heard What Daddy Did To Sister.’” She Raised Me Up To Be A Southern Writer, But It Wasn’t Easy.