There Is No Time For

Literature, It Seems To Me, Is Wisdom.

We Die. That May Be The Meaning Of Life. But We Do Language. That May Be The Measure Of Our Lives.

The Men Began To Trade Tales Of Atrocities, First Stories They Had Heard, Then Those They'd Witnessed, And Finally The Things That Had Happened To Themselves. A Litany Of Personal Humiliation, Outrage, And Anger Turned Sicklelike Back To Themselves As Humor. They Laughed Then, Uproariously, About The Speed With Which They Had Run, The Pose They Had Assumed, The Ruse They Had Invented To Escape Or Decrease Some Threat To Their Manliness, Their Humanness. All But Empire State, Who Stood, Broom In Hand And Drop-lipped, With The Expression Of A Very Intelligent Ten-year-old.

Lonely Was Much Better Than Alone.

All Paradises, All Utopias Are Designed By Who Is Not There, By The People Who Are Not Allowed In.