All Art Preserves Mysteries Which Aesthetic Philosophers

I Don't Write Out Of Fear. I Write Out Of A Strong Urge To Meet Death On Its Own Eternal Terms, Because The Fact Is That If You Write As Little As A Page Of Prose-even Bad Prose-that Is Eternal.

Then, Brothers, It Came. Oh, Bliss, Bliss And Heaven. I Lay All Nagoy To The Ceiling, My Gulliver On My Rookers On The Pillow, Glazzies Closed, Rot Open In Bliss, Slooshying The Sluice Of Lovely Sounds. Oh, It Was Gorgeousness And Gorgeosity Made Flesh.

Death Comes Along Like A Gas Bill One Can't Pay.

Laugh And The World Laughs With You, Snore And You Sleep Alone.

It Was Like A Bird Of Rarest-spun Heaven Metal Or Like Silvery Wine Flowing In A Spaceship, Gravity All Nonsense Now.