What Is It Precisely, That Feeling Of

Something Has Happened, Hasn't It? ... It's Like Being Up Close To Something So Large You Don't Even See It. Even Now, I'm Not Sure I Can. But I Know It's There.

What Idiocy, To Racing Into This Story And Its Labyrinths, Sprinting Away From Our Happiness Among The Fresh Spring Grasses By The Oak.

It Wasn't Only Wickedness And Scheming That Made People Unhappy, It Was Confusion And Misunderstanding; Above All, It Was The Failure To Grasp The Simple Truth That Other People Are As Real As You.

This Is The Pain-pleasure Of Having Newly Adult Children; They're Innocent And Ruthless In Forgetting Their Sweet Old Dependence.

Oh, I've Become Immune To The Booker. I Think We Need Something A Little More Like The Pulitzer Prize, Where There Isn't This Great Race.