When You Die, You Know, You Hear

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.

The Human Race Is Intoxicated With Narrow Victories, For Life Is A String Of Them Like Pearls That Hit The Floor When The Rope Breaks, And Roll Away In Perfection And Anarchy.

Of Course, You Would Have To Be Insane To Hope Your Child Grows Up To Be A Playwright Or Poet. Given The Odds, You Would Have To Be Quite Cavalier About Your Children's Future.

The Horse Could Not Do Without Manhattan. It Drew Him Like A Magnet, Like A Vacuum, Like Oats, Or A Mare, Or An Open, Never-ending, Tree-lined Road.

Quite Possibly There's Nothing As Fine As A Big Freight Train Starting Across Country In Early Summer, Hardesty Thought. That's When You Learn That The Tragedy Of Plants Is That They Have Roots.