For Memory, We Use Our

Enormous Morning, Ponderous, Meticulous; Gray Light Streaking Each Bare Branch, Each Single Twig, Along One Side, Making Another Tree, Of Glassy Veins.

Writing Keeps Me At My Desk, Constantly Trying To Write A Perfect Sentence. It Is A Great Privilege To Make One's Living From Writing Sentences. The Sentence Is The Greatest Invention Of Civilization. To Sit All Day Long Assembling These Extraordinary Strings Of Words Is A Marvelous Thing. I Couldn't Ask For Anything Better. It's As Near To Godliness As I Can Get.

I Dont Know If There Is A Personal Identity. We All Imagine That We Are Absolute Individuals. But When We Begin To Look For Where This Individuality Resides, Its Very Difficult To Find.

I Had Never Liked, Even Feared A Little, This Wild Reach Of Marsh And Mud Flats Where Everything Seemed Turned Away From The Land, Looking Off Desperately Toward The Horizon As If In Mute Search For A Sign Of Rescue.

Art Is Amoral, Whether We Accept This Or Not; It Does Not Take Sides. The Finest Fictions Are Cold At Heart.