I Have A Painter's Memory.

There Was No Way To Grasp The Reality Of The Present Which Slid Away Each Second, Invisible As Air; Reality Only Existed After The Fact, In One's Vision Of The Past.

If A Person Had Accused Him Of Meanness, He Could Have Defended Himself. But With A Dog - You Did Something Cheap To It When You Were Sure No One Was Looking, And It Was As Though You Had Done It In Front Of A Mirror.

Life Was An Impenetrable Mystery Cloaked In Babble.

My Father Brought Me A Box Of Books Once When I Was About Three And A Half Or Four. I Remember The Carton They Were In And The Covers With Illustrations By Newell C. Wyeth.

My Life Was Incoherent To Me. I Felt It Quivering, Spitting Out Broken Teeth.