A person could be immensely happy reading only him or the writers he loved. But that would be too easy.

The American mirror$$$ said the voice$$$ the sad American mirror of wealth and poverty and constant useless metamorphosis$$$ the mirror that sails and whose sails are pain.

The world is alive and no living thing has any remedy. That is our fortune.

For her$$$ reading was directly linked to pleasure$$$ not to knowledge or enigmas or constructions or verbal labyrinths.

They could read him$$$ they could study him$$$ they could pick him apart$$$ but they couldn't laugh or be sad with him....

I kept having dreams all night. I thought they were touching me with their fingers. But dreams don't have fingers$$$ they have fists$$$ so it must have been scorpions.

Life is a series of unlikely events$$$ isn't it?

Eat it or wear it.

The best cure for grief is learning.

For I dance <br>And drink and sing$$$<br>Till some blind hand <br>Shall brush my wing.<br>If thought is life<br>And strength and breath<br>And the want<br>Of thought is death<br>Then am I<br>A happy fly<br>If I live<br>Or if I die?