Green leaves on a dead tree is our epitaph-green leaves, dear reader, on a dead tree.
Like water, we are truest to our nature in repose.
Those of us who were brought up as Christians and have lost our faith have retained the sense of sin without the saving belief in redemption. This poisons our thought and so paralyses us in action.
When I write after dark the shades of evening scatter their purple through my prose.
The American language is in a state of flux based upon survival of the unfittest.
Greed, like the love of comfort, is a kind of fear.