You will say that I am old and mad, was what Michaelangelo wrote, but I answer that there is no better way of being sane and free from anxiety than by being mad.

Is T.S. Eliot the only poet one can think of who could have spent a year on his own in Paris at twenty-three—and managed to have no sexual encounter whatsoever?

Once, I had a dream of fame. Generally, even then, I was lonely.

What do any of us ever truly know?

In fact one frequently seemed to gather all sorts of similar information about subjects one had less than profound interest in.

I also believe I met William Gaddis once. He did not look Italian.

You will say that I am old and mad, was what Michaelangelo wrote, but I answer that there is no better way of being sane and free from anxiety than by being mad.