The Door Of The Novel, Like The

Nothing Stinks Like A Pile Of Unpublished Writing.

The Claw Of The Magnolia, Drunk On Its Own Scents, Asks Nothing Of Life.

I Don't See,' I Said, 'how People Stand Being Old. Your Insides All Dry Up. When You're Young You're So Self-reliant. You Don't Even Need Much Religion.

I Took A Deep Breath And Listened To The Old Bray Of My Heart. I Am. I Am. I Am.

How Can I Tell Bob That My Happiness Streams From Having Wrenched A Piece Out Of My Life, A Piece Of Hurt And Beauty, And Transformed It To Typewritten Words On Paper? How Can He Know I Am Justifying My Life, My Keen Emotions, My Feeling, By Turning It Into Print?