Writers, Unlike Most People, Tell Their Best

Undressing Her Was An Act Of Recklessness, A Kind Of Vandalism, Like Releasing A Zoo Full Of Animals, Or Blowing Up A Dam.

Poor Little Librarians Of The World, Those Girls, Secretly Lovely, Their Looks Marred Forever By The Cruelty Of A Pair Of Big Dark Eyeglasses!

I Don't Care What Is Written," Meyer Landsman Says. "i Don't Care What Supposedly Got Promised To Some Sandal-wearing Idiot Whose Claim To Fame Is That He Was Ready To Cut His Own Son's Throat For The Sake Of A Hare-brained Idea. I Don't Care About Red Heifers And Patriarchs And Locusts. A Bunch Of Old Bones In The Sand. My Homeland Is In My Hat. It's In My Ex-wife's Tote Bag.

Childhood, At Its Best, Is A Perpetual Adventure, In The Truest Sense Of That Overtaxed Word: A Setting Forth Into Trackless Lands That Might Have Come To Existence The Instant Before You First Laid Eyes On Them.

Every Messiah Fails, The Moment He Tries To Redeem Himself.