Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr.

Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!

Poe gives the sense for the first time in America, that literature is serious, not a matter of courtesy but of truth.

For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.

It is almost impossible to state what one in fact believes, because it is almost impossible to hold a belief and to define it at the same time.

When I am alone I am happy.