It Is Art That Makes Life, Makes

She Is Written In A Foreign Tongue.

I Recall My Fleeting Instants In Savannah As The Taste Of A Cup Charged To The Brim.

That Accurst Autobiographic Form Which Puts A Premium On The Loose, The Improvised, The Cheap, And The Easy.

I've Struck Up A Tremendous Intimacy With Conte Alberto, And We Literally Can't Live Without Each Other. He Is The First Object My Eyes Greet In The Morning, And The Last At Night.

What Is Either A Picture Or A Novel That Is Not Character?