At Sixty-three Years Of Age, Less A

Books, Books, Books. It Was Not That I Read So Much. I Read And Re-read The Same Ones. But All Of Them Were Necessary To Me. Their Presence, Their Smell, The Letters Of Their Titles, And The Texture Of Their Leather Bindings.

I Believe There Are More Urgent And Honorable Occupations Than The Incomparable Waste Of Time We Call Suffering.

Smokers, Male And Female, Inject And Excuse Idleness In Their Lives Every Time They Light A Cigarette.

Beautiful December Grapes, Blue As Plums, Every Grape A Little Skinful Of Sweet, Tasteless Water

The Word 'pure' Has Never Revealed An Intelligent Meaning To Me. I Can Only Use The Word To Quench An Optical Thirst For Purity In The Transparencies That Evoke It - In Bubbles, In A Volume Of Water, And In The Imaginary Latitudes Entrenched, Beyond Reach, At The Very Center Of A Dense Crystal.