The Writer Is All Alone.

It Isn't That There's No Right And Wrong Here. There's No Right.

Some Lesser Husbands Built A Latrine On The Hillside.

You Can't Deny What You've Learned; You Can't Deny Your Travels; You Can't Deny The Nature Of Your Life.

In Our Island Myth This Was The Prescribed End Of Marriages Like Mine: The Wife Goes Off With Someone From The Cercle Sportif, Outside Whose Gates At Night The Willingly Betrayed Husband Waits In His Motorcar. The Circumstances Were Slightly.

I Have A Very Small Public.