Most Things May Never Happen: This One

Uncontradicting Solitude Supports Me On Its Giant Palm; And Like A Sea-anemone Or Simple Snail, There Cautiously Unfolds, Emerges, What I Am.

A Writer Can Have Only One Language, If Language Is Going To Mean Anything To Him.

They Say Eyes Clear With Age.

But O, Photography! As No Art Is, Faithful And Disappointing!

I Listen To Money Singing, It's Like Looking Down From Long French Windows At A Provincial Town. The Slums, The Canal, The Churches Ornate And Mad In The Evening Sun. It Is Intensely Sad.