...the Heart Is An Organ Of Fire.

What Began It All Was The Bright Bone Of A Dream I Could Hardly Hold Onto.

Read Him Slowly, Dear Girl, You Must Read Kipling Slowly. Watch Carefully Where The Commas Fall So You Can Discover The Natural Pauses. He Is A Writer Who Used Pen And Ink. He Looked Up From The Page A Lot, I Believe, Stared Through His Window And Listened To Birds, As Most Writers Who Are Alone Do. Some Do Not Know The Names Of Birds, Though He Did. Your Eye Is Too Quick And North American. Think About The Speed Of His Pen. What An Appalling, Barnacled Old First Paragraph It Is Otherwise.

Her Hand Touched Me At The Wrist. "if I Gave You My Life, You Would Drop It. Wouldn't You?" I Didn't Say Anything.

Truth, At The Wrong Time, Can Be Dangerous.

Everything Is Biographical, Lucian Freud Says. What We Make, Why It Is Made, How We Draw A Dog, Who It Is We Are Drawn To, Why We Cannot Forget. Everything Is Collage, Even Genetics. There Is The Hidden Presence Of Others In Us, Even Those We Have Known Briefly. We Contain Them For The Rest Of Our Lives, At Every Border We Cross.