Only Art Means Anything.

Neither Mine Nor Other People's Prospects Seem Particularly Pleasing Just At The Moment, And I Have Fantasies Of Going To Iceland, Never To Return. As It Is, I Tell Myself Not To Remember The Past, Not To Hope Or Fear For The Future, And Not To Think In The Present, A Comprehensive Program That Will Undoubtedly Have Very Little Success.

Some Tiny Creature, Mad With Wrath, Is Coming Nearer On The Path.

I Really Think I Write About Everyday Life. I Don't Think I'm Quite As Odd As Others Say I Am.

I Really Think I Write About Everyday Life. I Don't Think I'm Quite As Odd As Others Say I Am. Life Is Intrinsically, Well, Boring And Dangerous At The Same Time. At Any Given Moment The Floor May Open Up. Of Course, It Almost Never Does; That's What Makes It So Boring.

I Tend To Be Rather Inconsequential And Trail Off.