It Was A Miracle; It Was All

I'm Forty-nine But I Could Be Twenty-five Except For My Face And My Legs.

The Gap Between The Committed And The Indifferent Is A Sahara Whose Faint Trails, Followed By The Mind's Eye Only, Fade Out In Sand.

Perhaps There Is No Other Way Of Reaching Some Understanding Of Being Than Through Art? Writers Themselves Don't Analyze What They Do; To Analyze Would Be To Look Down While Crossing A Canyon On A Tightrope. To Say This Is Not To Mystify The Process Of Writing But To Make An Image Out Of The Intense Inner Concentration The Writer Must Have To Cross The Chasms Of The Aleatory And Make Them The Word's Own, As An Explorer Plants A Flag.

Communists Are The Last Optimists.

Time Is Change; We Measure Its Passage By How Much Things Alter.