...mementos Of This World, In Which The

Tragedy Was Foresworn, In Ritual Denial Of The Ripe Knowledge That We Are Drawing Away From One Another, That We Share Only One Thing, Share The Fear Of Belonging To Another, Or To Others, Or To God; Love Or Money, Tender Equated In Advertising And The World, Where Only Money Is Currency, And Under Dead Trees And Brittle Ornaments Prehensile Hands Exchange Forgeries Of What The Heart Dare Not Surrender.

How Real Is Any Of The Past, Being Every Moment Revalued To Make The Present Possible.

Stupidity Is The Deliberate Cultivation Of Ignorance.

There Is Nothing More Distressing Or Tiresome Than A Writer Standing In Front Of An Audience And Reading His Work.

He Walked Out Into The Cold Morning Asking Himself This Heretical Question: Can You Start Measuring A Minute At Any Instant You Wish?