American Literature Has Always Been Immigrant.

We Were Language's Magpies By Nature, Stealing Whatever Sounded Bright And Shiny.

And So It Is They Who, Between Them, Give Me All The Reasons For Believing In None.

People Are Always Telling Me That They've Seen People Reading My Books On The Subway, Or The Beach, Or Whenever.

Ignorantly Is How We All Fall In Love; For It Is A Kind Of Fall. Closing Our Eyes, We Leap From That Cliff In Hope Of A Soft Landing. Nor Is It Always Soft; But Still, Without That Leap Nobody Comes To Life.

Language Upon A Silvered Tongue Affords Enchantment Enough.