I'm Killing Time And It's

The Impulse To Perfection Cannot Exist Where The Definition Of Perfection Is The Arbitrary Decision Of Authority. That Which Is Born In Loneliness And From The Heart Cannot Be Defended Against The Judgment Of A Committee Of Sycophants. The Volatile Essences Which Make Literature Cannot Survive The Clichés Of A Long Series Of Story Conferences.

I Guess God Made Boston On A Wet Sunday.

A City With All The Personality Of A Paper Cup. (on Los Angeles)

So By All Means Let's Have A Television Show Quick And Long, Even If The Commercial Has To Be Delivered By A Man In A White Coat With A Stethoscope Hanging Around His Neck, Selling Ergot Pills. After All The Public Is Entitled To What It Wants, Isn't It? The Romans Knew That And Even They Lasted Four Hundred Years After They Started To Putrefy.

They Write Them Long Because They Can't Write Them Short.