The Novel Wins By Points, The Short

But What Is Memory If Not The Language Of Feeling, A Dictionary Of Faces And Days And Smells Which Repeat Themselves Like The Verbs And Adjectives In A Speech, Sneaking In Behind The Thing Itself,into The Pure Present, Making Us Sad Or Teaching Us Vicariously.

Come Sleep With Me: We Won't Make Love,love Will Make Us.

Only In Dreams, In Poetry, In Play Do We Sometimes Arrive At What We Were Before We Were This Thing That, Who Knows, We Are.

When One Wants To Write, One Writes. If One Is Condemned To Write, One Writes.

What Good Is A Writer If He Can't Destroy Literature? And Us... What Good Are We If We Don't Help As Much As We Can In That Destruction?