We Are Homesick Most For The Places

This Was Her, Mick Kelly, Walking In The Daytime And By Herself At Night. In The Hot Sun And In The Dark With All The Plans And Feelings. This Music Was Her—the Real Plain Her...this Music Did Not Take A Long Time Or A Short Time. It Did Not Have Anything To Do With Time Going By At All. She Sat With Her Arms Around Her Legs, Biting Her Salty Knee Very Hard. The Whole World Was This Symphony, And There Was Not Enough Of Her To Listen... Now That It Was Over There Was Only Her Heart Beating Like A Rabbit And This Terrible Hurt.

This Fear Is One Of The Horrors Of An Author's Life. Where Does Work Come From? What Chance, What Small Episode Will Start The Chain Of Creation? I Once Wrote A Story About A Writer Who Could Not Write Anymore, And My Friend Tennessee Williams Said, 'how Could You Dare Write That Story, It's The Most Frightening Work I Have Ever Read.' I Was Pretty Well Sunk While I Was Writing It.

Wherever You Look There’s Meanness And Corruption. This Room, This Bottle Of Grape Wine, These Fruits In The Basket, Are All Products Of Profit And Loss. A Fellow Can’t Live Without Giving His Passive Acceptance To Meanness. Somebody Wears His Tail To A Frazzle For Every Mouthful We Eat And Every Stitch We Wear—and Nobody Seems To Know. Everybody Is Blind, Dumb, And Blunt-headed—stupid And Mean.

We Are Torn Between Nostalgia For The Familiar And An Urge For The Foreign And Strange. As Often As Not, We Are Homesick Most For The Places We Have Never Known.

How Can The Dead Be Truly Dead When They Still Live In The Souls Of Those Who Are Left Behind?