I don't want to read what is going to slide down easily; there has to be some crunch, a certain amount of resilience.

The first year was like icing. Then the cake started to show through.

Silly girls your heads full of boys

Therefore bivouac we On this great, blond highway, unimpeded by Veiled scruples, worn conundrums. Morning is Impermanent. Grab sex things, swing up Over the horizon like a boy On a fishing expedition.

A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.

Poetry is mostly hunches.

Once you've lived in France, you don't want to live anywhere else, including France.