This Life Is But The Childhood Of

She Had Nothing In This World But Her Two Hands And Her Crazy Love For Jesus, Who Seemed, For His Part, Never To Have Heard Of Her.

I Didnt Finish The Stories Until We Went To The Philippines And I Got Malaria. I Couldnt Work And I Didnt Have Any Money, But I Had Seven Stories. So I Wrote Three Or Four More.

We In Purgatory Sing Fondly Of Hell.

I Wandered Over Across The Hall Where They Were Showing A Short Movie About Vasectomies. Much Later I Told Her That I'd Actually Gotten A Vasectomy A Long Time Ago, And Somebody Else Must Have Gotten Her Pregnant. I Also Told Her Once That I Had Inoperable Cancer And Would Soon Be Passed Away And Gone, Eternally. But Nothing I Could Think Up, No Matter How Dramatic Or Horrible, Ever Made Her Repent Or Love Me The Way She Had At First, Before She Really Knew Me.

Down The Hall Came The Wife. She Was Glorious, Burning. She Didn't Know Yet That Her Husband Was Dead. We Knew. That's What Gave Her Such Power Over Us. The Doctor Took Her Into A Room With A Desk At The End Of The Hall, And From Under The Closed Door A Slab Of Brilliance Radiated As If, By Some Stupendous Process, Diamonds Were Being Incinerated In There. What A Pair Of Lungs! She Shrieked As I Imagined An Eagle Would Shriek. It Felt Wonderful To Be Alive To Hear It! I've Gone Looking For That Feeling Everywhere.