Good Writers Are Often Excellent

The Poet Or Storyteller Who Feels That He Is Competing With A Superb Double Play In The World Series Is A Lost Man. One Would Not Want As A Reader A Man Who Did Not Appreciate The Finesse Of A Double Play.

Love With Its Paraphernalia Of Sexuality, Jealousy, Nostalgia And Exaltation Was Easier To Reognize Than Friendship, Which Seemed To Have (excepting Athletic Equipment) No Paraphernalia At All.

I Was Born Into No True Class And It Was My Decision Early In Life To Insinuate Myself Into The Middle Class Like A Spy So That I Would Have An Advantageous Position Of Attack, But I Seem Now And Then To Have Forgotten My Mission, And To Have Taken My Disguises Too Seriously.

There Is A Terrible Sameness To The Euphoria Of Alcohol And The Euphoria Of Metaphor.

The World That Was Not Mine Yesterday Now Lies Spread Out At My Feet, A Splendor. I Seem, In The Middle Of The Night, To Have Returned To The World Of Apples, The Orchards Of Heaven. Perhaps I Should Take My Problems To A Shrink, Or Perhaps I Should Enjoy The Apples That I Have, Streaked With Color Like The Evening Sky.