To Achieve Harmony In Bad Taste Is

My Heart's In My Hand, And My Hand Is Pierced, And My Hand's In The Bag, And The Bag Is Shut, And My Heart Is Caught.

Anyone Who Hasn't Experienced The Ecstasy Of Betrayal Knows Nothing About Ecstasy At All.

They Remain Dead, The People I Try To Resuscitate By Straining To Hear What They Say. But The Illusion Is Not Pointless, Or Not Quite, Even If The Reader Knows All This Better Than I Do. One Thing A Book Tries To Do, Beneath The Disguise Of Words And Causes And Clothes And Grief, Is Show The Skeleton And The Skeleton Dust To Come. The Author Too, Like Those Of Whom He Speaks, Is Dead.

There Are Mornings When All Men Experience With Fatigue A Flush Of Tenderness That Makes Them Horny.

She Was Happy, And Perfectly In Line With The Tradition Of Those Women They Used To Call "ruined," "fallen," Feckless, Bitches In Heat, Ravished Dolls, Sweet Sluts, Instant Princesses, Hot Numbers, Great Lays, Succulent Morsels, Everybody's Darlings . . .