The Rain's Innumerable Hooves Spatter On The

How Vulgar, This Hankering After Immortality, How Vain, How False. Composers Are Merely Scribblers Of Cave Paintings. One Writes Music Because Winter Is Eternal And Because, If One Didn't, The Wolves And Blizzards Would Be At One's Throat All The Sooner.

Lunatics Are Writers Whose Works Write Them.

Probably" Is A Word With An Emergency Ejector Seat.

Peace, Though Beloved Of Our Lord, Is A Cardinal Virtue Only If Your Neighbors Share Your Conscience.

It's A Small World. It Keeps Recrossing Itself.