Is the alphabet responsible for the book in which it is written that makes me peevish and nasty and wish I were dumb again? We practiced drawing our letters digging into the top of the desk and old Sister Eymard rapped our knuckles until they bled she was the meanest of all and we knew she was crazy but none of the grownups would listen to us until she died in a madhouse. I am a bleak heroism of words that refuse to be buried alive with the liars.
