Age Indomitably, In The European Manner. Do

I Don't Read Reviews About Myself With Any Special Eagerness Or Attention Unless They Are Masterpieces Of Wit And Acumen, And I Never Reread Them.

You See, She Had Absolutely Nowhere Else To Go.

I Was The Shadow Of The Waxwing Slain/by The False Azure In The Windowpane.

And Really, The Reason We Think Of Death In Celestial Terms Is That The Visible Firmament, Especially At Night (above Our Blacked-out Paris With The Gaunt Arches Of Its Boulevard Exelmans And The Ceaseless Alpine Gurgle Of Desolate Latrines), Is The Most Adequate And Ever-present Symbol Of That Vast Silent Explosion.

A Writer Should Have The Precision Of A Poet And The Imagination Of A Scientist.