The Pigs Stuck Out Their Little Feet

I Hated The Salinger Story. It Took Me Days To Go Through It, Gingerly, A Page At A Time, And Blushing With Embarrassment For Him Every Ridiculous Sentence Of The Way. How Can They Let Him Do It?

What Childishness Is It That While There's Breath Of Life In Our Bodies, We Are Determined To Rush To See The Sun The Other Way Around?

Being A Poet Is One Of The Unhealthier Jobs--no Regular Hours, So Many Temptations!

Dreams Were The Worst. Of Course I Dreamed Of Food And Love, But They Were Pleasant Rather Than Otherwise. But Then I'd Dream Of Things Like Slitting A Baby's Throat, Mistaking It For A Baby Goat. I'd Have Nightmares Of Other Islands Stretching Away From Mine, Infinities Of Islands, Islands Spawning Islands, Like Frogs' Eggs Turning Into Polliwogs Of Islands, Knowing That I Had To Live On Each And Every One, Eventually, For Ages, Registering Their Flora, Their Fauna, Their Geography.

Ports Are Necessities, Like Postage Stamps Or Soap, But They Seldom Seem To Care What Impressions They Make.