In lieu of an abstract, below is the essay's first paragraph.
"Sarah was not alone in the house but she was the only one awake at the time the doorbell rang. Her two children were sleeping in their rooms and she was working in her bedroom, according to her usual habit. Every night after she pμt them to bed, she would write and think and read, non-fiction, mostly, because she wrote poetry and the way she did it was to throw out from herself, like a spider, a sticky web of intelligence-gathering that caught in it everything that wandered by. She was not a reader of fiction because she had had enough of other people's lies: she was constantly inventing her own. She also worked as a mathematician for a statistics-gathering company, and at night she would try to catch up on her paperwork and write reports on the daily discoveries, the raw data accumulated day by day. She glanced at the digital clock on the marble-inlaid table: 9:45. Often at this time at night, her father would drop in to visit her and to kiss his grandchildren. he had been doing this ever since her husband had died four years ago. She ran barefoot down the stairs, the shaggy white rug soft under her feet."
"The Lying Glass,"
The Angle: Vol. 1977
, Article 2.
Available at: http://fisherpub.sjfc.edu/angle/vol1977/iss1/2