The Disparity Between What People Said Life

I Can't Change The Past, And I Don't Think I Would. I Don't Expect To Be Understood. I Like What I've Written, The Stories And Two Novels. If I Had To Give Up What I've Written In Order To Be Clear Of This Disease, I Wouldn't Do It.

Death Is Not Soft-mouthed, Vague-footed, Nearby. It Is In The Hall.

In New York One Lives In The Moment Rather More Than Socrates Advised, So That At A Party Or Alone In Your Room It Will Always Be Difficult To Guess At The Long Term Worth Of Anything.

My Protagonists Are My Mother's Voice And The Mind I Had When I Was Thirteen.

The Cold Winds Of Insecurity... Hadn't Shredded The Dreamy Chrysalis Of His Childhood. He Was Still Immersed In The Dim, Wet Wonder Of The Folded Wings That Might Open If Someone Loved Him; He Still Hoped, Probably, In A Butterfly's Unthinking Way, For Spring And Warmth. How The Wings Ache, Folded So, Waiting; That Is, They Ache Until They Atrophy.