Kill The Pig! Cut His Throat! Kill

I Think There Might Even Come A Time When I Would Read Virgil Again. Ovid's Metamorphoses, Perhaps, Not Because The Music Goes Round And Round And Never Comes Out, But Because It's An Extraordinary Picture Of Ceaseless Change That Never Comes To An End.

I Hope My Books Make Statements About Our General Condition.

What A Man Does Defiles Him, Not What Is Done By Others.

My Yesterdays Walk With Me. They Keep Step, They Are Gray Faces That Peer Over My Shoulder.

The Man Who Tells The Tale If He Has A Tale Worth Telling Will Know Exactly What He Is About And This Business Of The Artist As A Sort Of Starry-eyed Inspired Creature, Dancing Along, With His Feet Two Or Three Feet Above The Surface Of The Earth, Not Really Knowing What Sort Of Prints He's Leaving Behind Him, Is Nothing Like The Truth.