In Our Dreams (writes Coleridge)

Creativity Is Suspended Between Memory And Forgetting.

There Is An Hour Of The Afternoon When The Plain Is On The Verge Of Saying Something. It Never Says, Or Perhaps It Says It Infinitely, Or Perhaps We Do Not Understand It, Or We Understand It And It Is Untranslatable As Music.

It's A Shame That We Have To Choose Between Two Such Second-rate Countries As The Ussr And The Usa.

I Do Not Write For A Select Minority, Which Means Nothing To Me, Nor For That Adulated Platonic Entity Known As ‘the Masses’. Both Abstractions, So Dear To The Demagogue, I Disbelieve In. I Write For Myself And For My Friends, And I Write To Ease The Passing Of Time.

Time Is The Tiger That Devours Me, But I Am That Tiger.