Death And I Are Head To Head

I'm Sixty-two, And It's Ecological Sense To Die While You're Still Productive, Die And Clear A Space For Others, Old And Young.

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.

Often Writing Is Like A Struggle To Get Back To A Kind Of Belated, Quite Impure Virginity.

True Stories, Autobiographical Stories, Like Some Novels, Begin Long Ago, Before The Acts In The Account, Before The Birth Of Some Of The People In The Tale.

I Awake With A Not Entirely Sickened Knowledge That I Am Merely Young Again And In A Funny Way At Peace, An Observer Who Is Aware Of Time's Chariot, Aware That Some Metamorphosis Has Occurred.