I am not likely to die of bashfulness but neither am I prepared to be crucified to attest the perfection of my art. I dislike to hear of any stray heroics on the prowl for me.

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

Deal with him, Hemingway!

Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory.

Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.

No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.

That ideal reader suffering from an ideal insomnia.