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Progressive stages of revision eliminate incidence in favor of essence.
“I think he does not care for art; I fancy he has not even read Pushkin.”
I'll rid the world of bad things. But first, I need to get more coffee.
Better to rewrite Baudelaire: The body only exists in the dark.
I used bravado to protect myself when we lived in poverty.
We take our solace, in a time of malaise and mourning, in the close-at-hand.
We caress the rough. Sensuous, delectable, and yet sorrowful.
Man is always beginning everything anew, even in his own life.
The survival of our world depends upon the cultivation of better language.
Fiction, no matter how short or long, is the art form of human yearning.
Americans have always a kind of tenderness for cheat.
I was writing copy for cheapo furniture for a crummy ad agency.
The guards ripped off Mara’s clothes, pinning her head against the wall.
To articulate sweet sounds together is to work harder than all these.
Crows rasp from branches, scatter debris across unfinished plots.
The excuse, of course, was that men had to support families.
You can go from one town square to another and never fall in love.
We need the opportunity to dance with really exquisite strangers.
I couldn’t love the tree in every soul shouldering its own tiny autumn.
I recoil from the certitude that religion can give a person; it’s horrific.
On your Desk—Oak Penshaft—Necklaced with Pearl—Iron Nib—
For one hundred years I followed old people to learn what I was in for.
The appendix on political correctness explains why none of that is funny.
In every pair, one shoe smells of exodus, the other of the body’s sweat.
One door teaches to read for meaning and pleasure. Another shuts.
Since I was little I was always wondering, What makes people tick?
When push comes to shove, I can get downright Aeolian on you, son.