... Survival Is The Least

I Was No Cherokee. I Was No Warrior. I Was Nobody Special. I Was Just A Girl, Scared And Angry. When I Saw Myself In Daddy Glen's Eyes, I Wanted To Die. No, I Wanted To Be Already Dead, Cold And Gone. Everything Felt Hopeless. He Looked At Me And I Was Ashamed Of Myself. It Was Like Sliding Down An Endless Hole, Seeing Myself At The Bottom, Dirty, Ragged, Poor, Stupid.

Beauty Is A Hard Thing. Beauty Is A Mean Story. Beauty Is Slender Girls Who Die Young, Fine-featured Delicate Creatures About Whom Men Write Poems. Beauty, My First Girlfriend Said To Me, Is That Inner Quality Often Associated With Great Amounts Of Leisure Time. And I Loved Her For That.

I Did Not Begin With Craft, I Began With Strong Feelings And Worked Toward Craft.

My Life Has Been Saved Over And Over Again By Picking Up A Book In Which Someone Captured The Whole Experience Of Being Despised And Not Dying.

And While It Is True That I Got The Best Woman In The World, I Don't Think Love Saves You.