For Memory, We Use Our

Enormous Morning, Ponderous, Meticulous; Gray Light Streaking Each Bare Branch, Each Single Twig, Along One Side, Making Another Tree, Of Glassy Veins.

A Plot Begins When Somebody Has Something To Hide.

The World Is Not Real For Me Until It Has Been Pushed Through The Mesh Of Language.

All I Wanted Was To Be Left Alone. They Abhor A Vacuum, Other People. You Find A Quiet Corner Where You Can Hunker Down In Peace, And The Next Minute There They Are, Crowding Around You In Their Party Hats, Tooting Their Paper Whistles In Your Face And Insisting You Get Up And Join In The Knees-up.

We Artists Love To Talk Tough, But We're Just As Sentimental As Everyone Else When It Comes Down To It.