It Is Strange How A Memory Will

I Adore You, Mon Petit, And Would Never Allow Him To Hurt You, No Matter How Gently Or Madly.

Style And Structure Are The Essence Of A Book; Great Ideas Are Hogwash.

When I Try To Analyze My Own Cravings, Motives, Actions And So Forth, I Surrender To A Sort Of Retrospective Imagination Which Feeds The Analytic Faculty With Boundless Alternatives And Which Causes Each Visualized Route To Fork And Re-fork Without End In The Maddeningly Complex Prospect Of My Past.

Coordinating There Events And Objects With Remote Events And Vanished Objects. Making Ornaments Of Accidents And Possibilities.

And What Is Death, If Not A Face At Peace - Its Artistic Perfection.