Sad; So Sad, Those Smoky-rose, Smoky-mauve Evenings

Aeneas Carried His Aged Father On His Back From The Ruins Of Troy And So Do We All, Whether We Like It Or Not, Perhaps Even If We Have Never Known Them.

His Wedding Gift, Clasped Round My Throat. A Choker Of Rubies, Two Inches Wide, Like An Extraordinarily Precious Slit Throat.

The End Of Exile Is The End Of Being.

She Stands And Moves Within The Invisible Pentacle Of Her Own Virginity. She Is An Unbroken Egg: She Is A Sealed Vessel; She Has Inside Her A Magic Space The Entrance To Which Is Shut Tight With A Plug Of Membrane; She Is A Closed System; She Does Not Know How To Shiver.

I Think The Adjective Post-modernist Really Means Mannerist. Books About Books Is Fun But Frivolous.