The Sentence Im Reading Is Terrific.

Sex Is Something I Really Don't Understand Too Hot.

It Was A Very Stupid Thing To Do, I'll Admit, But I Hardly Didn't Even Know I Was Doing It.

You Can't Argue With Someone Who Believes, Or Just Passionately Suspects, That The Poet's Function Is Not To Write What He Must Write But, Rather, To Write What He Would Write If His Life Depended On His Taking Responsibility For Writing What He Must In A Style Designed To Shut Out As Few Of His Old Librarians As Humanly Possible.

As Nearly As Possible In The Spirit Of Matthew Salinger, Age One, Urging A Luncheon Companion To Accept A Cool Lima Bean, I Urge My Editor, Mentor And (heaven Help Him) Closest Friend, William Shawn, Genius Domus Of The New Yorker, Lover Of The Long Shot, Protector Of The Unprolific, Defender Of The Hopelessly Flamboyant, Most Unreasonably Modest Of Born Great Artist-editors To Accept This Pretty Skimpy-looking Book.

The Connection Was So Bad, And I Couldn’t Talk At All During Most Of The Call. How Terrible It Is When You Say I Love You And The Person At The Other End Shouts Back ‘what?