Here Is The World, And You Live

Man," He Said, "i'm Not Afraid Of Graveyards. The Dead Are Just, You Know, People Who Wanted The Same Things You And I Want." "what Do We Want?" I Asked Blurrily. "aw, Man, You Know," He Said. "we Just Want, Well, The Same Things These People Wanted." "what Was That?" He Shrugged. "to Live, I Guess," He Said.

. . . He Felt Himself Entering A Moment So Real He Could Only Run Toward It, Shouting.

On A Summer Night It Can Be Lovely To Sit Around Outside With Friends After Dinner And, Yes, Read Poetry To Each Other. Keats And Yeats Will Never Let You Down, But It's Differently Exciting To Read The Work Of Poets Who Are Still Walking Around Out There.

I Encourage The Translators Of My Books To Take As Much License As They Feel That They Need. This Is Not Quite The Heroic Gesture It Might Seem, Because I've Learned, From Working With Translators Over The Years, That The Original Novel Is, In A Way, A Translation Itself.

Perhaps, In The Extravagance Of Youth, We Give Away Our Devotions Easily And All But Arbitrarily, On The Mistaken Assumption That We’ll Always Have More To Give.