Joy And Sadness Come By Turns.

Nobody But A Southerner Knows The Wrenching Rinsing Sadness Of The Cities Of The North.

One Of The Peculiar Ironies Of Being A Human Self In The Cosmos: A Stranger Approaching You In The Street Will In A Second's Glance See You Whole, Size You Up, Place You In A Way In Which You Cannot And Never Will, Even Though You Have Spent A Lifetime With Yourself, Live In The Century Of The Self, And Therefore Ought To Know Yourself Best Of All.

A Novel Is What You Call Something That Won't Sell If You Call It Poems Or Short Stories.

Fiction Doesn’t Tell Us Something We Don’t Know, It Tells Us Something We Know But Don’t Know That We Know.

Home May Be Where The Heart Is But It's No Place To Spend Wednesday Afternoon.