I Was Cured All Right.

The Trombones Crunched Redgold Under My Bed, And Behind My Gulliver The Trumpets Three-wise Silverflamed, And There By The Door The Timps Rolling Through My Guts And Out Again Crunched Like Candy Thunder. Oh, It Was Wonder Of Wonders. And Then, A Bird Of Like Rarest Spun Heavenmetal, Or Like Silvery Wine Flowing In A Spaceship, Gravity All Nonsense Now, Came The Violin Solo Above All The Other Strings, And Those Strings Were Like A Cage Of Silk Around My Bed. Then Flute And Oboe Bored, Like Worms Of Like Platinum, Into The Thick Thick Toffee Gold And Silver. I Was In Such Bliss, My Brothers.

Reviewers Do Not Read Books With Much Care . . . Their Profession Is More Given To Stupidity And Malice And Literary Ignorance Even Than The Profession Of Novelist.

Americans Will Listen, But They Do Not Care To Read. War And Peace Must Wait For The Leisure Of Retirement, Which Never Really Comes: Meanwhile It Helps To Furnish The Living Room.

Rome's Just A City Like Anywhere Else. A Vastly Overrated City, I'd Say. It Trades On Belief Just As Stratford Trades On Shakespeare.

Life Is A Wretched Gray Saturday, But It Has To Be Lived Through.