Look At This Tangle Of Thorns.

We Had Been Everywhere. We Had Really Seen Nothing. And I Catch Myself Thinking Today That Our Long Journey Had Only Defiled With A Sinuous Trail Of Slime The Lovely, Trustful, Dreamy, Enormous Country That By Then, In Retrospect, Was No More To Us Than A Collection Of Dog-eared Maps, Ruined Tour Books, Old Tires, And Her Sobs In The Night — Every Night, Every Night — The Moment I Feigned Sleep.

Mnemosyne, One Must Admit, Has Shown Herself To Be A Very Careless Girl.

As To The Rest, I Am No More Guilty Of Imitating 'real Life' Than'real Life' Is Responsible For Plagiarizing Me.

And What Is Death, If Not A Face At Peace - Its Artistic Perfection.

Readers Are Not Sheep, And Not Every Pen Tempts Them.