Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up and there you are... Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead.

Though their life was modest, they believed in eating well.

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you?

Mistakes are the portals of discovery.

My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out.

[A writer is] a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.

The State is concentric, but the individual is eccentric.