Forward

I am fourteen years old in Virginia.
It is about to storm, and one of the goats has broken loose. I am chasing her. I hate her, and by this time, having failed in every way to entice her into my grasp, I am panting, red, and screaming in exasperation, but nobody pays any attention to me. Mother is out back, picking ripe fruits off the pear tree, collecting them in her skirt, because, "If I dont pick them, the storm will ruin them," she says, and, needless to say, we all think she is crazy. Tim is in the kitchen fixing a supper for us which, knowing him, should turn out to be something like blueberry pancakes with mustard and honey sandwhiches on the side, but then, he is only five and a half. Dave, who is well into his seventh year, is repairing the lower right-hand pane on the front door, while at the same time trying to read a Black Beauty novel lying open on the floor beside him. Mother blew up at him a little whole ago and slammed the door so hard the pane toppled out. That makes the fifth time this summer. Same pane every time. Dad is sitting on the porch ignoring us all, playing his guitar and singing bawdy french ballads, and sipping a beer. If I go up to him and say, 'Pop, why cant we just let the damn thing run loose?" he will answer: "Are you trying to teach your old man how to suck eggs?" Clouds are dark and it looks like a good blow. The goat winks at me and cavorts away, and I collapse and bang my fists on the lawn, and begin to bawl insanely.


After getting some suggestion on good novels to check out, and not being able to find any used copies of said suggestions I randomly picked out a book entitled, The Wizard of Loneliness by the author who wrote such classics as The Magic Journey, and The Sterile Cuckoo. I had prepared myself for either brilliance in this novel, or complete disaster. But i tell you, with an intro like that... its just gotta be good. Or maybe, needless to say, Im crazy.