The Writer Must Hew The Phantom Rock.

I Do Not Have Any Home. So Why Should I Be Homesick?

The Trouble With Me Is That For A Long Time I Have Just Been An I Person. All People Belong To A We Except Me. Not To Belong To A We Makes You Too Lonesome.

I Have Never Gone To A Doctor In My Adult Life, Feeling Instinctively That Doctors Meant Either Cutting Or, Just As Bad, Diet.

But The Hearts Of Small Children Are Delicate Organs. A Cruel Beginning In This World Can Twist Them Into Curious Shapes. The Heart Of A Hurt Child Can Shrink So That Forever Afterward It Is Hard And Pitted As The Seed Of A Peach. Or Again, The Heart Of Such A Child May Fester And Swell Until It Is A Misery To Carry Within The Body, Easily Chafed And Hurt By The Most Ordinary Things.

The Curt Truth Is That, In A Deep Secret Way, The State Of Being Beloved Is Intolerable To Many. The Beloved Fears And Hates The Lover, And With The Best Of Reasons. For The Lover Is Forever Trying To Strip Bare His Beloved. The Lover Craves Any Possible Relation With The Beloved, Even If This Experience Can Cause Him Only Pain.