His Wings Were Failing, But He Refused

I Mean, I Have The Feeling That Something In My Mind Is Poisoning Everything Else.

Although I Do Not Care For The Slogan "art For Art's Sake", There Can Be No Question That What Makes A Work Of Fiction Safe From Larvae And Rust Is Not Its Social Importance But Its Art, Only Its Art.

Solitude Is The Playfield Of Satan.

You See, She Had Absolutely Nowhere Else To Go.

Between The Wolf In The Tall Grass And The Wolf In The Tall Story There Is A Shimmering Go-between. That Go-between, That Prism, Is The Art Of Literature.