“I had become so quiet and so small in the grass by the pond that I was barely noticeable, hardly there. I sat there watching their living room shining out of the dark beside the pond. It looked like a fairy-tale functioning happily in the post-World War II gothic of America before television crippled the imagination and turned people indoors and away from living out their own fantasies with dignity. Anyway, I just kept getting smaller and smaller beside the pond, more and more unnoticed in the darkening summer grass until I disappeared into the 32 years that have passed since then.”

“Your Catfish FriendIf I were to live my lifein catfish formsin scaffolds of skin and whiskersat the bottom of a pondand you were to come by one eveningwhen the moon was shiningdown into my dark homeand stand there at the edge of my affectionand think, “It's beautifulhere by this pond. I wish somebody loved me,”I'd love you and be your catfishfriend and drive such lonelythoughts from your mindand suddenly you would be at peace,and ask yourself, “I wonderif there are any catfishin this pond? It seems likea perfect place for them.”

“The truck looked just like a Civil War truck if they'd had trucks back in those times. But the truck ran, even though it didn't have a gas tank.There was an empty fifty-gallon gasoline drum on the bed of the truck with a smaller gasoline can on top of it, and there was a syphon leading from that can to the fuel line.It worked like this. Lee Mellon drove and I stayed on the back of the truck and made sure everything went all right with the syphon, that it didn't get knocked out of kilter by the motion of the truck.We looked kind of funny going down the highway. I'd never had the heart to ask Lee Mellon what happened to the gas tank. I figured it was best not to know.”

“The old woman had an old dog, but he hardly counted any more. He was so old that he looked like a stuffed dog. Once I took him for a walk down to the store. It was just like taking a stuffed dog for a walk. I tied him up to a stuffed fire hydrant and he pissed on it, but it was only stuffed piss.”

“Congratulations," I said. "It's so wonderful to write a book." "I walked all the way here," she said. "I started at midnight. I would have gotten here sooner if I weren't so old." "Where do you live?" I said. "The Kit Carson Hotel," she said. "And I've written a book." Then she handed it proudly to me as if it were the most precious thing in the world. And it was. It was a loose-leaf notebook of the type that you find everywhere in America. There is no place that does not have them. There was a heavy label pasted on the cover and written in broad green crayon across the label was the title: GROWING FLOWERS BY CANDLELIGHT IN HOTEL ROOMS BY MRS. CHARLES FINE ADAMS”

“Once upon a valley There came downFrom some goldenblue mountainsA handsome young princeWho was riding a dawncolored horseNames Lordsburg. I love youYou’re my breathing castleGentle so gentleWe’ll live foreverIn the valley There was a beautiful maidenWhom the prince drifted into love withLike a New Mexico made from apple thunder and long glass beds. I love youYou’re my breathing castleGentle so gentleWe’ll live foreverThe prince enchantedThe maidenAnd they rode offOn the dawncolored horse Named LordsburgToward the goldenblue mountains.I love youYou’re my breathing castleGentle so gentleWe’ll live foreverThey would have lived happily ever after if the horse hadn’t had a flat tireIn front of a dragon’sHouse.”

“I had a good-talking candle last night in my bedroom. I was very tired but I wanted somebody to be with me, so I lit a candle and listened to its comfortable voice of light until I was asleep.”