The Body Of Our Saviour Shat But

So To The Wretched Writer I Should Like To Say That There’s One Body Only Whose Request For Your Caresses Is Not Vulgar, Is Not Unchaste, Untoward, Or Impolite: The Body Of Your Work Itself; For You Must Remember That Your Attentions Will Not Merely Celebrate A Beauty But Create One; That Yours Is Love That Brings It Own Birth With It, Just As Plato Has Declared, And That You Should Therefore Give Up The Blue Things Of This World In Favor Of The Words Which Say Them

Works Of Art Are Meant To Be Lived With And Loved, And If We Try To Understand Them, We Should Try To Understand Them As We Try To Understand Anyone — In Order To Know Them Better, Not In Order To Know Something Else.

Of Course There Is Enough To Stir Our Wonder Anywhere; There's Enough To Love, Anywhere, If One Is Strong Enough, If One Is Diligent Enough, If One Is Perceptive, Patient, Kind Enough -- Whatever It Takes.

What One Wants To Do With Stories Is Screw Them Up.

The Expression To Write Something Down Suggests A Descent Of Thought To The Fingers Whose Movements Immediately Falsify It.