It Was A Silence That Heard Itself,

I Grew Up Sort Of Middle Class, Safe And Suburban.

Stories Are There To Be Told, And Each Story Changes With The Telling. Time Changes Them. Logic Changes Them. Grammar Changes Them. History Changes Them. Each Story Is Shifted Side-ways By Each Day That Unfolds. Nothing Ends. The Only Thing That Matters, As Faulkner Once Put It, Is The Human Heart In Conflict With Itself. At The Heart Of All This Is The Possibility, Or Desire, To Create A Piece Of Art That Talks To The Human Instinct For Recovery And Joy.

The World Spins. We Stumble On. It Is Enough.

That Was The Sort Of Everyday Love I Had To Learn To Contend With: If You Grow Up With It, It's Hard To Think You'll Ever Match It. I Used To Think It Was Difficult For Children Of Folks Who Really Loved Each Other, Hard To Get Out From Under That Skin Because Sometimes It's Just So Comfortable You Don't Want To Have To Develop Your Own.

A Book Is Completed Only When It Is Finished By A Reader.