Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.

We feel the machine slipping from our hands As if someone else were steering; If we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.

I want to apologize for plaguing you with so many telephone calls last November and December. When the 'enthusiasm' is coming on me it is accompanied by a feverish reaching out to my friends. After its over I wince and wither.

In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.

I'm sure that writing isn't a craft, that is, something for which you learn the skills and go on turning out. It must come from some deep impulse, deep inspiration. That can't be taught, it can't be what you use in teaching.

It's the light of the oncoming train.

Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.