Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.
It's the light of the oncoming train.
In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.
Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.
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.
In the end, there is no end.