I Live In A Room

Childhood Is Less Clear To Me Than To Many People: When It Ended I Turned My Face Away From It For No Reason That I Know About, Certainly Without The Usual Reason Of Unhappy Memories. For Many Years That Worried Me, But Then I Discovered That The Tales Of Former Children Are Seldom To Be Trusted. Some People Supply Too Many Past Victories Or Pleasures With Which To Comfort Themselves, And Other People Cling To Pains, Real And Imagined, To Excuse What They Have Become.

A Room Of One's Own Isn't Nearly Enough. A House, Or, Best, An Island Of One's Own.

Most People Coming Out Of War Feel Lost And Resentful. What Had Been A Minute-to-minute Confrontation With Yourself, Your Struggle With What Courage You Have Against Discomfort, At The Least, And Death At The Other End, Ties You To The People You Have Known In The War And Makes For A Time Others Seem Alien And Frivolous.

I Live In A Room And I Go To Work And I Play A Game Called Getting Through The Day While You Wait For The Night.

Maybe Money Is Unreal For Most Of Us, Easier To Give Away Than Things We Want.