We May Not Be The Creme De

I'd Been Told Of All The Things You're Meant To Feel When Your Father Dies. Sudden Freedom, Growing Up, The End Of Dependence, The Step Into The Sunlight When No One Is Taller Than You And You're In No One's Shadow. I Know What I Felt. Lonely.

I Had Inherited What My Father Called The Art Of The Advocate, Or The Irritating Habit Of Looking For The Flaw In Any Argument.

The Old Middle-class Prerogative Of Being Permanently In A Most Filthy Temper.

My Father, To Whom I Owe So Much, Never Told Me The Difference Between Right And Wrong; Now I Think That's Why I Remain So Greatly In His Debt.

I Suppose That Writers Should, In A Way, Feel Flattered By The Censorship Laws. They Show A Primitive Fear And Dread At The Fearful Magic Of Print.