Well-timed Silence Is The Most Commanding Expression.

Words Were All He Knew; They Possessed And Overwhelmed Him, As If They Were A Thousand White Cats With Whom He Shared A One-room Apartment.

Then The Bow Orchestra Began To Play An Apocalyptically Beautiful Canon, One Of Those Pieces In Which, Surely, The Composer Simply Transcribed What Was Given, And Trembled In Awe Of The Hand That Was Guiding Him.

I'm Sort Of Murdered For Selling Books. The Idea Is, If You Make Money Your Work Can't Be Literary.

All Rivers Run Full To The Sea; Those Who Are Apart Are Brought Together; The Lost Ones Are Redeemed; The Dead Come Back To Life; The Perfectly Blue Days That Have Begun And Ended In Golden Dimness Continue, Immobile And Accessible; And, When All Is Perceived In Such A Way As To Obviate Time, Justice Becomes Apparent Not As Something That Will Be, But Something That Is.

As It Somehow Always Manages Before The Winter Solstice, But Never After, The Early Darkness Was Cheerful And Promising, Even For Those Who Had Nothing.