I Ain't Sleeping. I'm Just Taking A

The City Has Always Been An Embodiment Of Hope And A Source Of Feeling Guilt; A Dream Pursued, And Found Vain, Wanting, And Destructive.

Democrats Inhabit The Low Shores Of Puget Sound, Mostly On Its Eastern Side, In A Ragged Trail Of Port-cities That Stretches From Bellingham, Close To The Canadian Border, Through Everett, Seattle, And Tacoma, To Olympia, The State Capital, At The Southern End Of The Sound.

Insofar As I Think About Postmodernism At All, And It Doesn't Exactly Keep Me Awake At Nights, I Think Of It As Something That Happens To One, Not A Style One Affects. We're Postmoderns Because We're Not Modernists. The Modernist Writers—pound, Eliot, Joyce, Stevens, Yeats, Woolf, Williams—spoke With A Kind Of Vatic Authority: They Were Really The Last Of The Romantics, For Whom Authorship Itself Was Like Being A Solitary Prophet In The Wasteland.

If We Live Inside A Bad Joke, It Is Up To Us To Learn, At Best And Worst, To Tell It Well.

There's An Enduring American Compulsion To Be On The Side Of The Angels. Expediency Alone Has Never Been An Adequate American Reason For Doing Anything. When Actions Are Judged, They Go Before The Bar Of God, Where Mom And The Flag Closely Flank His Presence.