Maybe There Are Times When

I Don't Like To Be Described As A Southern Writer. The Danger Is, If You're Described As A Southern Writer, You Might Be Thought Of As Someone Who Writes About A Picturesque Local Scene Like Uncle Tom's Cabin, Gone With The Wind, Something Like That.

Life Is Fits And Starts, Mostly Fits.

Like Many Young Men In The South, He Had Trouble Ruling Out The Possible. They Are Not Like An Immigrant's Son In Passaic Who Desires To Become A Dentist And That Is That. Southerners Have Trouble Ruling Out The Possible. What Happens To A... Man To Whom All Things Seem Possible And Every Course Of Action Open? Nothing Of Course.

The Present Age Is Demented. It Is Possessed By A Sense Of Dislocation, A Loss Of Personal Identity, An Alternating Sentimentality And Rage Which, In An Individual Patient, Could Be Characterized As Dementia.

Ooooh," Kate Groans, Kate Herself Now. "i'm So Afraid." "i Know." "what Am I Going To Do?" "you Mean Right Now?" "yes." "we'll Go To My Car. Then We'll Drive Down To The French Market And Get Some Coffee. Then We'll Go Home." "is Everything Going To Be All Right?" "yes." "tell Me. Say It." "everything Is Going To Be All Right.