Prose should have a flow, the forward momentum of a certain energized weight; it should feel like a voice tumbling in your ear.

It's been the same story ever since I can remember, ever since Wilson - the Republicans don't do a thing for the little man.

Fenway Park, in Boston, is a lyric little bandbox of a ballpark. Everything is painted green and seems in curiously sharp focus, like the inside of an old-fashioned peeping-type Easter egg.

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

Writing fiction is like music. You have to keep it moving. You can have slow movements but there has to be a sense of momentum, of going someplace. You hear a snatch of Beethoven and it has a sense of momentum that is unmistakably his. That's a nice quality if you can do it in fiction.

The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel- Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such. The bee, his hive, Well-honeyed hum, And Mother cuts Chrysanthemums. Like plates washed clean With suds, the days Are polished with A morning haze.

Natural beauty is essentially temporary and sad, hence the impression of obscene mockery which artificial flowers give us.