Beautiful December Grapes, Blue As Plums, Every

I Have Found My Voice Again And The Art Of Using It.

To Write Is To Pour One’s Innermost Self Passionately Upon The Tempting Paper, At Such Frantic Speed That Sometimes One’s Hand Struggles And Rebels, Overdriven By The Impatient God Which Guides It - And To Find, Next Day, In Place Of The Golden Bough That Bloomed Miraculously In That Dazzling Hour, A Withered Bramble And A Stunted Flower.

A Pretty Little Collection Of Weaknesses And A Terror Of Spiders Are Our Indispensable Stock-in-trade With The Men...

The Word 'pure' Has Never Revealed An Intelligent Meaning To Me. I Can Only Use The Word To Quench An Optical Thirst For Purity In The Transparencies That Evoke It - In Bubbles, In A Volume Of Water, And In The Imaginary Latitudes Entrenched, Beyond Reach, At The Very Center Of A Dense Crystal.

Is Suffering So Very Serious? ...i'm Referring To The Kind Of Suffering A Man Inflicts On A Woman Or A Woman On A Man. It's Extremely Painful... Hardly Bearable. But I Very Much Fear That This Sort Of Pain... Is No More Worthy Of Respect Than Old Age Or Illness.