Art Is A Profession, Not A Shrine.

Boston - Wrinkled, Spindly-legged, Depleted Of Nearly All Her Spiritual And Cutaneous Oils, Provincial, Self-esteeming - Has Gone On Spending And Spending Her Inflated Bills Of Pure Reputation, Decade After Decade.

It's One Of The Things Writing Students Don't Understand. They Write A First Draft And Are Quite Disappointed, Or Often Should Be Disappointed. They Don't Understand That They Have Merely Begun, And That They May Be Merely Beginning Even In The Second Or Third Draft.

Houses Of Evil Similarity Appeared Like Rows Of Disciplined, Humiliated Orphans.

Mothers Born On Relief Have Their Babies On Relief. Nothingness, Truly, Seems To Be The Condition Of These New York People. They Are Nomads Going From One Rooming House To Another, Looking For A Toilet That Functions.

Since Films And Television Have Staged Everything Imaginable Before It Happens, A True Event, Taking Place In The Real World, Brings To Mind The Landscape Of Films.