Why Do I Write? The Truth, The

That's One Of The Privileges Of Old Age - You Can Give Plenty Of Advice 'cause Most Folks Think That's All You Got Left Anyway.

There Is A Problem In America. An Irish Or Polish American Can Write A Story And It's An American Story. When A Black American Writes A Story, It's Called A Black Story. I Take Exception To That. Every Artist Has Articulated To His Own Experience. The Problem Is That Some People Do Not See Blacks As Americans.

Old As She Was, She Still Missed Her Daddy Sometimes.

Six Months Of Looking For A Job Had Made Me An Expert At Picking Out The People Who, Like Me, Were Hurrying Up To Wait - In Somebody's Outer Anything For A Chance To Make It Through Their Inner Doors To Prove That You Could Type Two Words A Minute, Or Not Drool On Your Blouse While Answering Difficult Questions About Your Middle Initial And Date Of Birth.

Time's Passage Through The Memory Is Like Molten Glass That Can Be Opaque Or Crystalize At Any Given Moment At Will: A Thousand Days Are Melted Into One Conversation, One Glance, One Hurt, And One Hurt Can Be Shattered And Sprinkled Over A Thousand Days. It Is Silent And Elusive, Refusing To Be Damned And Dripped Out Day By Day; It Swirls Through The Mind While An Entire Lifetime Can Ride Like Foam On The Deceptive, Transparent Waves And Get Sprayed Onto The Conciousness At Ragged, Unexpected Intervals.