Nothing Lasts. Not Even A Great Sorrow.

To Grow Old Is To Have Taken Away, One By One, All Gifts Of Life, The Food And Wine, The Music And The Company. ... The Gods Unloose, One By One, The Mortal Fingers That Cling To The Edge Of The Table.

Speaking The Truth, Once You Have Started It, Is Too Exhilarating To Draw Back.

The Past Is Able To Close Round Certain Moments, As If They Were Seeds, And Deliver Them Again Fresh And Living In The Present.

The Critic's Hankering To Be Law-giver Rather Than Servant Of Literature Is Irrepressible.

Critics Have Been Amusing Themselves For A Long Time By Auscultating Fiction For Signs Of Heart Failure.