Of nothing but me I sing, lacking another song.

I assume my stance, and take back the club, low, slowly; at the top, my eyes fog over, and my joints dip and swirl like barn swallows, I swing. There is a fruitless commotion of dust and rubber at my feet. "Smothered it," I say promptly. After enough lessons the terminology becomes second nature.

I think books should have secrets, like people do.

We do survive every moment, after all, except the last one.

There is no pleasing New Englanders, my dear, their soil is all rocks and their hearts are bloodless absolutes.

I really don't want to encourage young writers. Keep them down and out and silent is my motto.

The first breath of adultery is the freest; after it, constraints aping marriage develop.