...and I Wrote A Book And That

I Think I've Learnt That There Is No Character So Strange That You Haven't Shared Their Experience In Some Small Way.

It Exasperated Her Sometimes. The Way Men Could Be So Sure Of Themselves. They Put Words Together Like Sheds Or Shelves And You Could Stand On Them They Were So Solid. And Those Feelings Which Overwhelmed You In The Small Hours Turned To Smoke.

There's Something With The Physical Size Of America... American Writers Can Write About America And It Can Still Feel Like A Foreign Country.

How Pleased We Are To Have Our Eyes Opened But How Easily We Close Them Again.

He Was Asking Too Many Questions And He Was Asking Them Too Quickly. They Were Stacking Up In My Head Like Loaves In The Factory Where Uncle Terry Works. The Factory Is A Bakery And He Operates The Slicing Machines. And Sometimes A Slicer Is Not Working Fast Enough But The Bread Keeps Coming And There Is A Blockage. I Sometimes Think Of My Mind As A Machine, But Not Always As A Bread-slicing Machine. It Makes It Easier To Explain To Other People What Is Going On Inside It.