If you start by hating one or two people, you won't be able to stop. Pretty soon you'll hate a hundred people." "A zillion?" "Even a zillion. A little hatred goes a long, long way. It grows and grows. And it's hungry." "Like Cimmamum?" "Even hungrier. You keep feeding it more and more people, and the more it gets, the more it wants. It's never satisfied. And pretty soon it squeezes all the love out of your heart"--I pointed to her heart; she looked down at her chest--"and all you'll have left is a hateful heart.

This was the start of a period that blurs as I try to recall it. Incidents seem to cascade and merge. Events become feelings, fellings become events. Head and heart are contrary historians.

I have a curious background for someone who turns out to be a writer.

The blanket was there, but it was the boy's embrace that covered and warmed him.

In our minds we tried to pin her to a corkboard like a butterfly, but the pin merely went through and away she flew

She was elusive. She was today. She was tomorrow.

Because life doesn't always happen according to a timetable or calendar. And feelings can't be scheduled.