" Grudgingly, I stepped into the skirt. It wasa little too small, but I managed to zip it up in the back.Brenda then came at me with a tight little sw...ater. I pulled myway into it."Are you quite finished yet?" For two years I had fantasizedabout being with Brenda again. Now my dreams were coming true,and the first thing she wants to do it doll me up in herclothes. "Not finished yet, honey." What do you mean, not finished? What more could I put on?" For starters, there's makeup." Makeup?" I. When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow.The only abnormality is the incapacity to love.The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.It is the function of art to renew our perception. What we are familiar with we cease to see. The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and. More

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