When Modern Writers Gave Up Telling Stories,

When In Still Air And Still In Summertime A Leaf Has Had Enough Of This, It Seems To Make Up Its Mind To Go; Fine As A Sage Its Drifting In Detachment Down The Road.

It May Be Said That Poems Are In One Way Like Icebergs: Only About A Third Of Their Bulk Appears Above The Surface Of The Page.

We Think About Sex Obsessively Except During The Act, When Our Minds Tend To Wander.

Occasionally A Student Writer Comes Up With Something Really Beautiful And Moving, And You Won't Know For Years If It Was An Accident Or The First Burst Of Something Wonderful.

[t]eaching Has Been For Me An Education (lord Knows What It Has Been For My Students).