They Lay There For A

The Little Boy Had Wandered Away From His Mother, Tacking Across The Grass Toward The Play Structure. His Mother Watched Him Go, Proud, Tickled, Unaware That Every Time They Toddled Away From You, They Came Back A Little Different, Ten Seconds Older And Nearer To The Day When They Left You For Good. Pearl Divers In Training, Staying Under A Few Seconds Longer Every Time.

The Thing That Strikes Me Now When I Think About The Wilderness Of Childhood Is The Incredible Degree Of Freedom My Parents Gave Me To Adventure There. A Very Grave, Very Significant Shift In Our Idea Of Childhood Has Occurred Since Then. The Wilderness Of Childhood Is Gone; The Days Of Adventure Are Past. The Land Ruled By Children, To Which A Kid Might Exile Himself For At Least Some Portion Of Every Day From The Neighboring Kingdom Of Adulthood, Has In Large Part Been Taken Over, Co-opted, Colonized, And Finally Absorbed By The Neighbors.

It's Always Been Hard For Me To Tell The Difference Between Denial And What Used To Be Known As Hope.

Every Golden Age Is As Much A Matter Of Disregard As Of Felicity.

Literature, Like Magic, Has Always Been About The Handling Of Secrets, About The Pain, The Destruction, And The Marvelous Liberation That Can Result When They Are Revealed. If A Writer Doesn't Give Away Secrets, His Own Or Those Of The People He Loves, If He Doesn't Court Disapproval, Reproach And General Wrath, Whether Of Friends, Family Or Party Apparatchiks... The Result Is Pallid, Inanimate, A Lump Of Earth.