Biographers, The Quick In Pursuit

Sex Can No Longer Be The Germ, The Seed Of Fiction. Sex Is An Episode, Most Properly Conveyed In An Episodic Manner, Quickly, Often Ironically. It Is A Bursting Forth Of Only One Of The Cells In The Body Of The Omnipotent I, The One Who Hopes By Concentration Of Tone And Voice To Utter The Sound Of Reality.

I Am Alone Here In New York, No Longer A We.

It Is June. This Is What I Have Decided To Do With My Life Just Now. I Will Do This Work And Lead This Life, The One I Am Leading Today. Each Morning The Blue Clock And The Crocheted Bedspread, The Table With The Phone, The Books And Magazines, The Times At The Door.

Self-love Is An Idolatry. Self-hatred Is A Tragedy.

Flattery Is A Challenge. The Proper Turning Away From It, Undercutting, Diminishing It Without Offense Or Vehemence, Is A Social Grace Sweeter Even Than The Swift Determination To Keep Ahead In The Race Of Hospitality.