I have spent the last five months obsessively working on Outlaw.
To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.
All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.
Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
ZENITH NOON beats out on its solar anvil the rays of light
Lennon's was one of the first voices I emulated when I began to sing. When we held tryouts in my pal's dad's living room for the singer in our band, I sang a Beatles song that Lennon sang. There is something about the timbre of his voice, something that it conveys, that still gets to me. The quality and the poetry of his lyrics. The wry sense of humor. And the boyishness, in the beginning. There are a great many things that touch me about him. . . Lennon was, to put it in his own words, a 'working-class hero. '
I would say that all short stories have mystery naturally built into them.
Splendid to arrive alone in a foreign country and feel the assault of difference. Here they are all along, busy with living; they don't talk or look like me. The rhythm of their day is entirely different; I am foreign.