But You Can't Always Tell - With

Your Heart, Bessie, Is An Autumn Garage.

For Joy, Apparently, It Was All Franny Could Do To Hold The Phone, Even With Both Hands.

But Where Does By Far The Bulk, The Whole Ambulance Load, Of Pain Really Come From? Where Must It Come From? Isn't The True Poet Or Painter A Seer? Isn't He, Actually, The Only Seer We Have On Earth? Most Apparently Not The Scientist, Most Emphatically Not The Psychiatrist.

I'm Beginning To Feel That No Author Has The Right To Tear His Characters Apart If He Doesn't Know How, Or Feel That He Knows How (poor Sucker) To Put Them Together Again. I'm Tired—my God, So Tired—of Leaving Them All Broken On The Page With Just 'the End' Written Underneath.

Sensitive. That Killed Me. That Guy Morrow Was About As Sensitive As A Toilet Seat.