We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.

Sometimes nothing is so solid to me as writing - I suppose that's what a vocation means - at times a torment, a bad conscience, but all in all, purpose and direction.

Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.

The world is absolutely out of control now and is not going to be saved by any reason or unreason.

September twenty-second, Sir, the bough cracks with unpicked apples, and at dawn the small-mouth bass breaks water, gorged with spawn.

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.

It's the light of the oncoming train.