Oh Constance, We Are So

I Am Like A Small Creature Swallowed Whole By A Monster, She Thought, And The Monster Feels My Tiny Little Movements Inside.

I Took My Coffee Into The Dining Room And Settled Down With The Morning Paper. A Woman In New York Had Had Twins In A Taxi. A Woman In Ohio Had Just Had Her Seventeenth Child. A Twelve-year-old Girl In Mexico Had Given Birth To A Thirteen-pound Boy. The Lead Article On The Woman's Page Was About How To Adjust The Older Child To The New Baby. I Finally Found An Account Of An Axe Murder On Page Seventeen, And Held My Coffee Cup Up To My Face To See If The Steam Might Revive Me.

Certainly There Are Spots Which Inevitably Attach To Themselves An Atmosphere Of Holiness And Goodness; It Might Not Then Be Too Fanciful To Say That Some Houses Are Born Bad.

I Never Was A Person Who Wanted A Handout. I Was A Cafeteria Worker. I'm Not Too Proud To Ask The Best Western Manager To Give Me A Job. I Have Cleaned Homes.

It Might Be Suggested, And Not Easily Disproven That Anything, No Matter How Exotic, Can Be Believed By Someone. On The Other Hand, Abstract Belief Is Largely Impossible; It Is The Concrete, The Actuality Of The Cup, The Candle, The Sacrificial Stone, Which Hardens Belief; The Statue Is Nothing Until It Cries, The Philosophy Is Nothing Until The Philosopher Is Martyred.