Don’t Complain, Don’t Explain.

A Man Without Hands Came To The Door To Sell Me A Photograph Of My House. Except For The Chrome Hooks, He Was An Ordinary-looking Man Of Fifty Or So.

When A Reader Finishes A Wonderful Story And Lays It Aside, He Should Have To Pause For A Minute And Collect Himself.

And What Did You Want? To Call Myself Beloved, To Feel Myself Beloved On The Earth.

She Serves Me A Piece Of It A Few Minutes Out Of The Oven. A Little Steam Rises From The Slits On Top. Sugar And Spice - Cinnamon - Burned Into The Crust. But She's Wearing These Dark Glasses In The Kitchen At Ten O'clock In The Morning - Everything Nice - As She Watches Me Break Off A Piece, Bring It To My Mouth, And Blow On It. My Daughter's Kitchen, In Winter. I Fork The Pie In And Tell Myself To Stay Out Of It. She Says She Loves Him. No Way Could It Be Worse.

Don’t Complain, Don’t Explain.