I Have A Dreadful Fear That The

Ice Burns, And It Is Hard To The Warm-skinned To Distinguish One Sensation, Fire, From The Other, Frost.

Literary Critics Make Natural Detectives.

There Are Things That Happen And Leave No Discernible Trace, Are Not Spoken Or Written Of, Though It Would Be Very Wrong To Say That Subsequent Events Go On Indifferently, All The Same, As Though Such Things Had Never Been.

I Worry About Anthropomorphism As A Form Of Self-deception. (the Christian Religion Is An Anthropomorphic Account Of The Universe.)

I Think There Are A Lot More Important Things Than Art In The World. But Not To Me.