Imagination Is Nostalgia For The Past, The

A Life Based On Reason Will Always Require To Be Balanced By An Occasional Bout Of Violent And Irrational Emotion, For Instinctual Drives Must Be Satisfied

When I Write After Dark The Shades Of Evening Scatter Their Purple Through My Prose.

Dining Out Is A Vice, A Dissipation Of Spirit Punished By Remorse. We Eat, Drink, And Talk A Little Too Much, Abuse All Our Friends, Belch Out Our Literary Preferences And Are Egged On By Accomplices In The Audience To Acts Of Mental Exhibitionism. Such Evenings Cannot Fail To Diminish Those Who Take Part In Them. They End On Monkey Hill.

Two Weeks Before His Death, A Friend Asked Him Half Jokingly If He Had Discovered Any Meaning In Life. "yes," He Replied, "there Is A Meaning; At Least, For Me, There Is One Thing That Matters - To Set A Chime Of Words Tinkling In The Minds Of A Few Fastidious People."

Poets Arguing About Modern Poetry: Jackals Snarling Over A Dried-up Well.