I Have Been Fighting Over Commas All

You’ll Join Me Sooner Than You Know In A Place With . . . No Illusions, Where The Truth Is The Only Architecture, The Only Color, The Only Sound--where That Which We Sense Merely On Occasion, And Which Takes Us Up And Gives Us The Rare And Beautiful Glimpses Of The Things We Truly Love, Flows In Deep Rivers And Tumbles About Like Clouds In The Sky.

I've Always Been Terribly Uninterested In Criticism. And One Of The Reasons, I Just Thought Recently, Is That You Know There Are Various Schools Of Criticism That Will Compete, And One Will Supercede The Other.

Accident Is As Much A Part Of Fiction As Anything Else, Symbolic Of The Grace That, Along With Will, Conspires To Put Words On The Page.

Perhaps Things Are Most Beautiful When They Are Not Quite Real; When You Look Upon A Scene As An Outsider, And Come To Possess It In Its Entirety And Forever; When You Live In The Present With The Lucidity And Feeling Of Memory; When, For Want Of Connection, The World Deepens And Becomes Art.

He Could Say Nothing. He Had No Right To Be There, He Had Already Been Profoundly Changed, He Was No Good At Small Talk, She Was Half Naked, It Was Dawn And He Loved Her.