To Live, To Err, To Fall, To

Hell Is The Centre Of Evils And, As You Know, Things Are More Intense At Their Centres Than At Their Remotest Points.

Evening Had Fallen. A Rim Of The Young Moon Cleft The Pale Waste Of Sky Line, The Rim Of A Silver Hoop Embedded In Grey Sand: And The Tide Was Flowing In Fast To The Land With A Low Whisper Of Her Waves, Islanding A Few Last Figures In Distant Pools.

The Important Thing Is Not What We Write But How We Write, And In My Opinion The Modern Writer Must Be An Adventurer Above All, Willing To Take Every Risk, And Be Prepared To Founder In His Effort If Need Be. In Other Words We Must Write Dangerously

Tenors Get Women By The Score.

Can't Bring Back Time. Like Holding Water In Your Hand.