The One-eyed Man Will Be King In

Spindly Branches Of Buttercups Were Secreted Among Gleaming Stems Still Moist At The Roots From Last Night's Rain That Had Washedand Refreshed The Entire Wood, Had Dowered It In Poignant Transparency, The Unique, Inconsolable Quality Of Rainy Countries, As If All Was Glimpsed Through Tears.

I Know That Whenever A Group Of Women Are Gathered Together, The Grandmother Always Makes A Phantom Appearance, Hovering Above Them.

He Is The Intermediary Between Us, His Audience, The Living, And They, The Dolls, The Undead, Who Cannot Live At All And Yet Who Mimic The Living In Every Detail Since, Though They Cannot Speak Or Weep, Still They Project Those Signals Of Signification We Instantly Recognize As Language.

I Always Used To Suffer A Great Deal If I Let Myself Get Too Close To Reality Since The Definitive World Of The Everyday With Itshard Edges And Harsh Light Did Not Have Enough Resonance To Echo The Demands I Made Upon Experience. It Was As If I Never Experienced Experience As Experience. Living Never Lived Up To The Expectations I Had Of It--the Bovary Syndrome.

Art Need No Longer Be An Account Of Past Sensations.