If All Good, Respectable People Had One

She Could Give Herself Up To The Written Word As Naturally As A Good Dancer To Music Or A Fine Swimmer To Water. The Only Difficulty Was That After Finishing The Last Sentence She Was Left With A Feeling At Once Hollow And Uncomfortably Full. Exactly Like Indigestion.

Something Came Out From My Heart Into My Throat And Then Into My Eyes.

I Have Tried," I Said, "but He Does Not Believe Me. It Is Too Late For That Now" (it Is Always Too Late For Truth, I Thought).

The Feeling Of Sunday Is The Same Everywhere, Heavy, Melancholy, Standing Still.

They Say When Trouble Comes Close Ranks, And So The White People Did.