What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.
I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
The frost makes a flower, the dew makes a star.
I am silver and exact.I have no preconceptions.