How Can We Be Strangers If We

One's Fantasy Goes For A Walk And Returns With A Bride.

There Are No Wrong Books. What's Wrong Is The Fear Of Them.

A Man Is An Island In The Only Sense That Matters, Not An Easy Way To Be. We Live In Mystery, A Cosmos Of Separate Lonely Bodies, Men, Insects, Stars. It Is All Loneliness And Men Know It Best.

When I Don't Feel Hurt, I Hope They Bury Me.

A Writer Is A Spectator, Looking At Everything With A Highly Critical Eye.