Prose Is Like Hair; It Shines With

Madame Aubain's Servant Felicite Was The Envy Of The Ladies Of Pont-l'eveque For Half A Century.

I Invite All Brats To Throw Their Cookies At The Baker's Head If They're Not Sweet, Winos To Chuck Their Wine If It's Bad, The Dying To Shuck Their Souls When They Croak, And Men To Throw Their Existence In God's Face When It's Bitter

But An Infinity Of Passions Can Be Contained In A Minute, Like A Crowd In A Tiny Space.

The True Poet For Me Is A Priest. As Soon As He Dons The Cassock, He Must Leave His Family.

Beautiful Things Spoil Nothing.