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

There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an adored child.

Maybe the only thing that hints at a sense of Time is rhythm; not the recurrent beats of the rhythm but the gap between two such beats, the gray gap between black beats: the Tender Interval.

A major writer combines these three - storyteller, teacher, enchanter - but it is the enchanter in him that predominates and makes him a major writer.

Let the credulous and the vulgar continue to believe that all mental woes can be cured by a daily application of old Greek myths to their private parts.

Dear Jesus, do something.

Why do those people guess so much and shave so little, and are so disdainful of hearing aids?