So Many Means Of Self-destruction,

My Students Know I Have A Life, They Know I've Written About My Life. They Know Some Detail, Probably More Than They Know About Their Physics Teacher, But I Would've Told Them Anyway!

The Idea Began To Sink In, More Than It Ever Had, That I Might Be Crazy, In The Traditional Sense Of The Word. That I Might Be, Forever And Ever Amen, A Crazy Person. That's What We'd Suspected All Along, What I'd Been Working So Hard To Disprove, What Might Be True. I Preferred, By Far, Being Dead.

He Leaned Down And Whispered To Me: No Matter How Thin You Get, No Matter How Short You Cut Your Hair, It's Still Going To Be You Underneath. And He Let Go Of My Arm And Walked Back Down The Hall.

You Can't Teach An Ear, You Can't Teach Talent, But You Can Teach People Who Have Those Things Not To Just Fly By The Seat Of Their Pants.

I Was Perpetually Grief-stricken When I Finished A Book, And Would Slide Down From My Sitting Position On The Bed, Put My Cheek On The Pillow And Sigh For A Long Time. It Seemed There Would Never Be Another Book. It Was All Over, The Book Was Dead. It Lay In Its Bent Cover By My Hand. What Was The Use? Why Bother Dragging The Weight Of My Small Body Down To Dinner? Why Move? Why Breathe? The Book Had Left Me, And There Was No Reason To Go On.