I guess this is why I hate governments, all governments. It is always the rule, the fine print, carried out by fine-print men. There's nothing to fight, no wall to hammer with frustrated fists.

My own journey started long before I left, and was over before I returned.

How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise - the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream - be set down alive?

Literature was not promulgated by a pale and emasculated critical priesthood singing their litanies in empty churches, nor is it a game for the cloistered elect, the tinhorn mendicants of low calorie despair.

Can you honestly love a dishonest thing?

Trips to fairly unknown regions should be made twice; once to make mistakes and once to correct them.

Hate cannot live alone. It must have love as a trigger, a goad, or a stimulant.