I Grew, A Happy, Healthy

I Cannot Disobey Something Which I Do Not Know And The Reality Of Which I Have The Right To Deny.

We All Have Such Fateful Objects -- It May Be A Recurrent Landscape In One Case, A Number In Another -- Carefully Chosen By The Gods To Attract Events Of Specific Significance For Us: Here Shall John Always Stumble; There Shall Jane's Heart Always Break.

Her Lips Were Like Large Crimson Polyps.

All Great Novels Are Great Fairy Tales.

Happy Is The Novelist Who Manages To Preserve An Actual Love Letter That He Received When He Was Young Within A Work Of Fiction, Embedded In It Like A Clean Bullet In Flabby Flesh And Quite Secure There, Among Spurious Lives.