Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.

Treading the soil of the moon, palpating its pebbles, tasting the panic and splendor of the event, feeling in the pit of one's stomach the separation from Terra-these form the most romantic sensation an explorer has ever known . . . this is the only thing I can say about the matter. The utilitarian results do not interest me.

No writer in a free country should be expected to bother about the exact demarcation between the sensuous and the sensual; this is preposterous; I can only admire but cannot emulate the accuracy of judgment of those who pose the fair young mammals photographed in magazines where the general neckline is just low enough to provoke a past master's chuckle and just high enough not to make a postmaster frown.

We think not in words but in shadows of words.

You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own.

And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine.

And the rest is rust and stardust.