Writers Know That Sometimes Things Are There

Where Man Had Been, In Every Place He Left, Garbage Remained. Even In His Pursuit Of The Ultimate Truth And Quest For His God, He Produced Garbage. By His Garbage, Which Lay Stratum Upon Stratum, He Could Always - One Had Only To Dig - Be Known. For More Long-lived Than Man Is His Refuse. Garbage Alone Lives After Him.

On Sorrow Floats Laughter.

How Easily The Routine Of Sin Establishes Itself.

I Had An Uncle Who Was A Postal Official At The Polish Post Office In Gdansk. He Was One Of The Defenders Of The Polish Postal Service And, After It Capitulated, Was Shot By The Germans Under The Provisions Of Martial Law. Suddenly He Was No Longer A Member Of The Family, And We Were No Longer Allowed To Play With His Children.

Everything Bigger Than Life Attracts A Crowd.