The day I went into physics class it was death.

At this rate, I'd be lucky if I wrote a page a day. Then I knew what the problem was. I needed experience. How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die? A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa. How could I compete with that sort of thing?

Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.

I am too pure for you or anyone.

Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.

I knew you'd decide to be all right again.

And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.