Time Is Born In The Eyes, Everybody

Come Sleep With Me: We Won't Make Love,love Will Make Us.

Of All Our Feelings The Only One Which Really Doesn't Belong To Us Is Hope. Hope Belongs To Life, It's Life Itself Defending Itself. Etcetera.

The More A Book Is Like An Opium Pipe, The More The Chinaman Reader Is Satisfied With It And Tends To Discuss The Quality Of The Drug Rather Than Its Lethargic Effects.

Where Are The Beginnings, The Endings, And Most Important, The Middles?

What Good Is A Writer If He Can't Destroy Literature? And Us... What Good Are We If We Don't Help As Much As We Can In That Destruction?