There Is At Least This

I Always Thought Old Age Would Be A Writer’s Best Chance. Whenever I Read The Late Work Of Goethe Or W. B. Yeats I Had The Impertinence To Identify With It. Now, My Memory’s Gone, All The Old Fluency’s Disappeared. I Don’t Write A Single Sentence Without Saying To Myself, ‘it’s A Lie!’ So I Know I Was Right. It’s The Best Chance I’ve Ever Had.

We Are Not Saints, But We Have Kept Our Appointment. How Many People Can Boast As Much?

If You Do Not Love Me I Shall Not Be Loved If I Do Not Love You I Shall Not Love.

We Always Find Something, Eh Didi, To Let Us Think We Exist?

I Love Order. It's My Dream. A World Where All Would Be Silent And Still, And Each Thing In Its Last Place, Under The Last Dust.