Perhaps, In The Extravagance Of Youth, We

She'd Never Imagined It Like This-when She Thought Of Someone (a Woman Like Herself)losing Her Mind, She'd Imagined Shrieks And Wails, Hallucinations; But At That Moment It Had Seemed Clear That There Was Another Way, Far Quieter; A Way That Was Numb And Hopeless, Flat, So Much So That An Emotion As Strong As Sorrow Would Have Been A Relief.

Here's A Secret. Many Novelists, If They Are Pressed And If They Are Being Honest, Will Admit That The Finished Book Is A Rather Rough Translation Of The Book They'd Intended To Write.

I Was Not Ladylike, Nor Was I Manly. I Was Something Else Altogether. There Were So Many Different Ways To Be Beautiful.

But There Are Still The Hours, Aren't There? One And Then Another, And You Get Through That One And Then, My God, There's Another.

A Certain Bohemian, Good-witch Sort Of Charm