I Can't Write Without A

...the Sounds Next Door Served As A Kind Of Trip Wire: I Seemed To Stumble And Fall On My Face, Skinning And Bruising Myself Here And There And Scattering My Emotional And Intellectual Possessions. There Was No Point In Pretending That I Had Not Fallen, For When We Are Stretched Out In The Dirt We Must Pick Ourselves Up And Brush Off Our Clothes. This Then, In A Sense, Is What I Did, Reviewing My Considered Opinions On Marriage, Constancy, Man's Nature, And The Importance Of Love. When I Had Picked Up My Possessions And Repaired My Appearance, I Fell Asleep.

I Look Up The Telephone Number Of Alcoholics Anonymous. Then, My Hands Shaking, I Open The Bar And Drink The Leftover Whiskey, Gin And Vermouth-whatever I Can Lay My Shaking Hands On.

These Stories Seem At Times To Be Stories Of A Long-lost World When The City Of New York Was Still Filled With A River Light, When You Heard The Benny Goodman Quartets From A Radio In The Corner Stationery Store, And When Almost Everybody Wore A Hat.

The Need To Write Comes From The Need To Make Sense Of One's Life And Discover One's Usefulness.

The Deep Joy We Take In The Company Of People With Whom We Have Just Recently Fallen In Love Is Undisguisable.