To Be Human Is To Be In

My Life Was Incoherent To Me. I Felt It Quivering, Spitting Out Broken Teeth.

A Year And A Half After The End Of The War And The German Occupation, Paris Was Muted And Looked Bruised And Forlorn. Everywhere I Went, I Sensed The Tracks Of The Wolf That Had Tried To Devour The City. But Paris Proved Inedible, As It Had Been Ever Since Its Tribal Beginnings On An Island In The Seine, The Ile De La Cité.

My Father Brought Me A Box Of Books Once When I Was About Three And A Half Or Four. I Remember The Carton They Were In And The Covers With Illustrations By Newell C. Wyeth.

Life Was An Impenetrable Mystery Cloaked In Babble.

When I Begin A Story At My Desk, The Window To My Back, The Path Is Not There. As I Start To Walk, I Make The Path.