What the New Yorker calls home would seem like a couple of closets to most Americans, yet he manages not only to live there but also to grow trees and cockroaches right on the premises.
Contributed by: Zaady
The people who are always hankering loudest for some golden yesteryear usually drive new cars.
There's so much spectating going on that a lot of us never get around to living.
The only thing I was fit for was to be a writer, and this notion rested solely on my suspicion that I would never be fit for real work, and that writing didn't require any.
The worst thing about the miracle of modern communications is the Pavlovian pressure it places upon everyone to communicate whenever a bell rings.
Misery no longer loves company. Nowadays it insists on it.
I gave up on new poetry myself 30 years ago when most of it began to read like coded messages passing between lonely aliens in a hostile world.
Anticipating that most poetry will be worse than carrying heavy luggage through O'Hare Airport, the public, to its loss, reads very little of it.
Poetry is so vital to us until school spoils it.
Live by publicity, you'll probably die by publicity.
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