The Voodoo Priest And All His Powders

I've Never Had A Cup Of Coffee In My Life. I Can't Even Remain In The Same Room With Coffee.

The Streets Of New York And Some Wards Of Its Venerable Institutions Were Packed With People Who, Despite Being Entirely Forsaken, Had Episodes Of Glory That Made The Career Of Alexander The Great Seem Like A Day In The Life Of A File Clerk.

They Were Dancing Around The Fountain, Arm In Arm, In An Old Dutch Dance, Their Cheeks Touching, Their Hands Entwined. They Had No Music; They Hummed. And There Was No Reason For Them To Be Dancing That Peter Lake Could See, Except That It Was An Exceptionally Beautiful Night.

I've Always Been Terribly Uninterested In Criticism. And One Of The Reasons, I Just Thought Recently, Is That You Know There Are Various Schools Of Criticism That Will Compete, And One Will Supercede The Other.

When You Die, You Know, You Hear The Insistent Pounding That Defines All Things, Whether Of Matter Or Energy, Since There Is Nothing In The Universe, Really, But Proportion.