It Was Better To Be In A

All Men Are Lonely. But Sometimes It Seems To Me That We Americans Are The Loneliest Of All. Our Hunger For Foreign Places And New Ways Has Been With Us Almost Like A National Disease. Our Literature Is Stamped With A Quality Of Longing And Unrest, And Our Writers Have Been Great Wanderers.

But The Hearts Of Small Children Are Delicate Organs. A Cruel Beginning In This World Can Twist Them Into Curious Shapes.

It Was Like They Waited To Tell Each Other Things That Had Never Been Told Before. What She Had To Say Was Terrible And Afraid. But What He Would Tell Her Was So True That It Would Make Everything All Right. Maybe It Was A Thing That Could Not Be Spoken With Words Or Writing. Maybe He Would Have To Let Her Understand This In A Different Way. That Was The Feeling She Had With Him.

The World Is Certainty A Sudden Place.

The Memories Of Childhood Have A Strange Shuttling Quality, And Areas Of Darkness Ring The Spaces Of Light. The Memories Of Childhood Are Like Clear Candles In An Acre Of Night, Illuminating Fixed Scenes From Surrounding Darkness.