The Art Of Writing Is To Explain

Walking The Streets On Winter Nights Kept Him Warm, Despite The Cold Nocturnal Passions Of Uprising Winds. His Footsteps Led Between Trade-marked Houses, Two Up And Two Down, With Digital Chimneys Like Pigs' Tits On The Rooftops Sending Up Heat And Smoke Into The Cold Trough Of A Windy Sky. Stars Hid Like Snipers, Taking Aim Now And Again When Clouds Gave Them A Loophole. Winter Was An Easy Time For Him To Hide His Secrets, For Each Dark Street Patted His Shoulder And Became A Friend, And The Gaseous Eye Of Each Lamp Glowed Unwinking As He Passed.

Well, It's A Good Life And A Good World, All Said And Done, If You Don't Weaken.

I Realized It Might Be Possible To Do Such A Thing, Run For Money, Trot For Wages On Piece Work At A Bob A Puff Rising Bit By Bit To A Guinea A Gasp And Retiring Through Old Age At Thirty-two Because Of Lace-curtain Lungs, A Football Heart, And Legs Like Varicose Beanstalks.

You Can Always Rely On A Society Of Equals Taking It Out On The Women.

I'm Me And Nobody Else; And Whatever People Think I Am Or Say I Am, That's What I'm Not, Because They Don't Know A Bloody Thing About Me.