I Hope My Books Make Statements About

Beethoven For Listening; Liszt, Chopin, And Beethoven For Playing As Well As Bach And Prokofiev And So On. If I Kept Going, This List Would Spiral. It's As Wide As Literature; In Fact, It Is Probably Wider.

The Greatest Ideas Are The Simplest.

I Am Here; And Here Is Nowhere In Particular.

Which Is Better--to Have Laws And Agree, Or To Hunt And Kill?

The Pile Of Guts Was A Black Blob Of Flies That Buzzed Like A Saw. After A While These Flies Found Simon. Gorged, They Alighted By His Runnels Of Sweat And Drank. They Tickled Under His Nostrils And Played Leapfrog On His Thighs. They Were Black And Iridescent Green And Without Number; And In Front Of Simon, The Lord Of The Flies Hung On His Stick And Grinned. At Last Simon Gave Up And Looked Back; Saw The White Teeth And Dim Eyes, The Blood—and His Gaze Was Held By That Ancient, Inescapable Recognition.