In The Strange Heat All

Writing About Writing Is A Bit Like Talking About A Conversation You Are Having; It Tends To Obscure Desperation About Where The Next Word Is Coming From.

Intelligent People, Caught At Anything, Denied It. Faced With Evidence Of Having Denied It Falsely, People Said They Had Not Done It And Had Not Lied About It, And Didn't Remember It, But If They Had Done It, Or Lied About It, They Would Have Done It And Misspoken Themselves About It In An Interest So Much Higher As To Alter The Nature Of Doing And Lying Altogether.

I Love The Laconic. Clearly, I Am Not Of Their Number.

Things Have Changed Very Much, Several Times, Since I Grew Up, And, Like Everyone In New York Except The Intellectuals, I Have Led Several Lives And I Still Lead Some Of Them.

I Think When You Are Truly Stuck, When You Have Stood Still In The Same Spot For Too Long, You Throw A Grenade In Exactly The Spot You Were Standing In, And Jump, And Pray. It Is The Momentum Of Last Resort.