You've no fear of heights," puffed the girl. "None," I said. "I've heard that about you.
I think about my mother singing after lunch on a Summer afternoon, twirling in blue dress across the floor of her dressing room
What is more basic than the need to be known? It is the entirety of intimacy, the elixir of love, this knowing.
The compelling thing about making art - or making anything, I suppose - is the moment when the vaporous, insubstantial idea becomes a solid there, a thing, a substance in a world of substances.
He looks sad. Or maybe that's just how he looks when he isn't doing something else with his face.
I am suddenly comsumed by nostalgia for the little girl who was me, who loved the fields and believed in God, who spent winter days home sick from school reading Nancy Drew and sucking menthol cough drops, who could keep a secret.
. . . all of our laments could not add a single second to her life, not one additional beat of the heart, nor a breath.
. . . (Charles) Reich discredits reason because it has been used to justify the war in Vietnam, which is like deciding that because your mother has cooked you a few bad meals you must never eat again.
Socialism and interventionism. Both have in common the goal of subordinating the individual unconditionally to the state.
Laws are like sausages. You sleep far better the less you know about how they are made.
I don't consider writing a quiet, closet act. I consider it a real physical act. When I'm home writing on the typewriter, I go crazy. I move like a monkey. I've wet myself, I've come in my pants writing.