Those Rituals Of Getting Ready To Write

Like An Ox-cart Driver In Monsoon Season Or The Skipper Of A Grounded Ship, One Must Sometimes Go Forward By Going Back.

Choosing Is Existence. To The Extent That You Don't Choose, You Don't Exist.

More History Is Made By Secret Handshakes Than By Battles, Bills And Proclamations.

A Curious Thing About Written Literature: It Is About Four Thousand Years Old, But We Have No Way Of Knowing Whether Four Thousand Years Constitutes Senility Or The Maiden Blush Of Youth.

Nothing Is Intrinsically Valuable; The Value Of Everything Is Attributed To It, Assigned To It From Outside The Thing Itself, By People.