I Can't Picture Myself Starting Out Aiming

...pleasure, Of Course, Is A Slippery Word.... Our Pleasures Ultimately Belong To Us, Not To The Pleasure's Source.

It Is As If One By One, The Memories You Used To Harbor Decided To Retire To The Southern Hemisphere Of The Brain.

I Think The Pleasure Of Form Is That You Have A Companion With You Besides All The Poetry You Have Ever Read.

While The Novelist Is Banging On His Typewriter, The Poet Is Watching A Fly In The Windowpane.

The Name Of The Author Is The First To Go Followed Obediently By The Title, The Plot, The Heartbreaking Conclusion, The Entire Novel Which Suddenly Becomes One You Have Never Read, Never Even Heard Of, As If, One By One, The Memories You Used To Harbor Decided To Retire To The Southern Hemisphere Of The Brain, To A Little Fishing Village Where There Are No Phones.