One of the first things I do when invited into a woman’s home is check out her bookcase. At one apartment I saw the collected works of William Faulkner. Her thought patterns reminded me of Faulkner – she’d talk with very few pauses. I’d watch the words slip away, knowing that near the end they must mean something. Though, she was a master at deceiving the listener, taking him up one path ending in a dead end, while moving on to another road. When I asked her what was Faulkner’s best novel, she said she didn’t know. She hadn’t read Faulkner yet. She bought the books at an auction, because she heard he was good. She was saving his books to read during a long snowy week when it was too cold and slippery to venture outside. Then she took out some pot and started smoking it. I realized where her long sentences came from. And it wasn’t Faulkner.