The Year I Began To

It Was Like That Class At School Where The Teacher Talks About Realization, About How You Could Realize Something Big In A Commonplace Thing. The Example He Gave--and The Liar Said It Really Happened--was That Once While Drinking Orange Juice, He'd Realized He Would Be Dead Someday. He Wondered If We, His Students, Had Had Similar 'realizations.' Is He Kidding? I Thought. Once I Cashed A Paycheck And I Realized It Wasn't Enough. Once I Had Food Poisoning, And Realized I Was Trapped Inside My Body.

I Have Written Letters That Are Failures, But I Have Written Few, I Think, That Are Lies. Trying To Reach A Person Means Asking The Same Question Over And Over Again: Is This The Truth, Or Not? I Begin This Letter To You, Then, In The Western Tradition. If I Understand It, The Western Tradition Is: Put Your Cards On The Table.

A Five-hour Flight Works Out To Three Days And Nights On Land, By Rail, From Sea To Shining Sea. You Can Chalk Off The Hours On The Back Of The Seat Ahead. But Seventy-some Hours Will Not Seem So Long To You If You Tell Yourself First: This Is Where I Am Going To Be For The Rest Of My Natural Life.

I Probably Have Less Revision Than Those Who Have That Wonderful Rush Of Story To Tell - You Know, I Can't Wait To Tell You What Happened The Other Day. It Comes Tumbling Out And Maybe Then They Go Back And Refine. I Kind Of Envy That Way Of Working, But I Just Have Never Done It.

I Thought, My Love Is So Good, Why Isn't It Calling The Same Thing Back.