Lucky Is The Man Who Does Not

My Mother Refused To Let Me Fail. So I Insisted.

Nobody But A Southerner Knows The Wrenching Rinsing Sadness Of The Cities Of The North.

Have You Noticed That Only In Time Of Illness Or Disaster Or Death Are People Real? I Remember At The Time Of The Wreck-- People Were So Kind And Helpful And Solid. Everyone Pretended That Our Lives Until That Moment Had Been Every Bit As Real As The Moment Itself And That The Future Must Be Real Too, When The Truth Was That Our Reality Had Been Purchased Only By Lyell's Death. In Another Hour Or So We Had All Faded Out Again And Gone Our Dim Ways.

Losing Hope Is Not So Bad. There's Something Worse: Losing Hope And Hiding It From Yourself.

A Novel Is What You Call Something That Won't Sell If You Call It Poems Or Short Stories.