Beware The Writer Who Always Encloses The

I Believe That There Is A Kind Of Poetry, Even A Kind Of Truth, In Simple Fact.

Books Are Like Eggs -- Best When Fresh.

The City Itself Swung Slowly Toward Us Silent As A Dream. No Sign Of Life But Puffs Of Steam From Skyscraper Chimneys, The Motion Of The Traffic. The Mighty Towers Stood Like Tombstones In A Graveyard, Leaning Against The Sky And Waiting For -- For What? Someday We'll Know.

The World Is Full Of Burled And Gnarly Knobs On Which You Can Hang A Metaphysical System. If You Must.

In Everything But Brains And Brawn, Women Are Vastly Superior To Men. A Different Race.