My Veins Are Filled, Once A Week

The Fear Of Death Is For All Of Us Everywhere, But For The Great Intelligence Of The Opium Eater It Is Beautifully Narrowed Into The Crux Of Drugs.

I Dream That My Face Appears On A Postage Stamp.

A Page Of Good Prose Remains Invincible.

Then It Is Dark; It Is A Night Where Kings In Golden Suits Ride Elephants Over The Mountains.

Falsehood Is A Critical Element In Fiction. Part Of The Thrill Of Being Told A Story Is The Chance Of Being Hoodwinked. . .the Telling Of Lies Is A Sort Of Sleight Of Hand That Displays Our Deepest Feelings About Life.