The Short Story Is The Literature Of

Art Is The Triumph Over Chaos.

The Organizations Of Men, Like Men Themselves, Seem Subject To Deafness, Near-sightedness, Lameness, And Involuntary Cruelty. We Seem Tragically Unable To Help One Another, To Understand One Another.

All Things Of The Sea Belong To Venus; Pearls And Shells And Alchemists' Gold And Kelp And The Riggish Smell Of Neap Tides, The Inshore Green, And Purple Further Out And The Joy Of Distances And The Roar Of Falling Masonry, All These Are Hers, But She Doesn't Come Out Of The Sea For All Of Us.

There Is A Terrible Sameness To The Euphoria Of Alcohol And The Euphoria Of Metaphor.

I Can't Write Without A Reader. It's Precisely Like A Kiss - You Can't Do It Alone.