You May Talk. And I May Listen.

And If There Is Not Any Such Thing As A Long Time, Nor The Rest Of Your Lives, Nor From Now On, But There Is Only Now, Why Then Now Is The Thing To Praise And I Am Very Happy With It.

Up The Road, In His Shack, The Old Man Was Sleeping Again. He Was Still Sleeping On His Face And The Boy Was Sitting By Him Watching Him. The Old Man Was Dreaming About The Lions.

Having Books Published Is Very Destructive To Writing.

You Belong To Me And All Paris Belongs To Me And I Belong To This Notebook And This Pencil.

I've Been Wondering About Dostoyevsky. How Can A Man Write So Badly, So Unbelievably Badly, And Make You Feel So Deeply?