I don't understand how any good art could fail to be political.

In the long run, most of us spend about fifteen minutes total in the entanglements of passion, and the rest of our days looking back on it, humming the tune.

If you want sweet dreams, you've got to live a sweet life.

The talkers are rising above the thinkers.

Forgive me, O Heavenly Father, according to the multitude of Thy mercies. I have lusted in my heart to break a man's skull and scatter the stench of his brains across several people's back yards.

Because I could not stop for death he kindly stopped for me, or paused at least to strike a glancing blow with his sky-blue mouth as he passed.

We tap our toes to chaste love songs about the silvery moon without recognizing them as hymns to copulation.