But it is just two lovers, holding hands and in a hurry to reach their car, their locked hands a starfish leaping through the dark.

In asking forgiveness of women for our mythologizing of their bodies, for being unreal about them, we can only appeal to their own sexuality, which is different but not basically different, perhaps, from our own. For women, too, there seems to be that tangle of supplication and possessiveness, that descent toward infantile undifferentiation, that omnipotent helplessness, that merger with the cosmic mother-warmth, that flushed pulse-quickened leap into overestimation, projection, general mix-up.

Golf appeals to the idiot in us and the child. Just how childlike golf players become is proven by their frequent inability to count past five.

Any activity becomes creative when the doer cares about doing it right or better.

How can you respect the world when you see it's being run by a bunch of kids turned old?

Men emerge pale from the little printing plant at four sharp, ghosts for an instant, blinking, until the outdoor light overcomes the look of constant indoor light clinging to them.

Hope bases vast premises on foolish accidents, and reads a word where in fact only a scribble exists.