Every Man Is Made Of Clay And

I Am Quite Alone. I Am Neither Happy Nor Unhappy; I Lie Suspended Like A Hair Or A Feather In The Cloudy Mixtures Of Memory.

All Culture Corrupts, But French Culture Corrupts Absolutely.

I Don’t Believe One Reads To Escape Reality. A Person Reads To Confirm A Reality He Knows Is There, But Which He Has Not Experienced.

What Are Stars But Points In The Body Of God Where We Insert The Healing Needles Of Our Terror And Longing?

I Have Been Thinking About The Girl I Met Last Night In The Mirror: Dark On The Marble-ivory White: Glossy Black Hair: Deep Suspiring Eyes In Which One's Glances Sink Because They Are Nervous, Curious, Turned To Sexual Curiosity.