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Lying in wait, set to pounce on the page, are letters up to no good.

“We have heard that this blackened smear is art. We do not see it.”

Thus is the way of leaves the secret ones that no one sees, not even me

The true Lesson of the Master is, simply, to husband one’s own stupidity.

The letter both pleased and disturbed her. Why did he get in touch?

It was on a mid-June morning that the stranger first called.

Write simple sentences. Report. Don’t moralize. No pretensions.

Five dark shapes loped after the car. Dogs—as far as the eye could see.

We want to revisit what life was like before technology infected us.

Sometimes a you is a lover, but he is not my lover. He is looking at me.

His thoughts are never far from the erotic as he roams around Dublin.

Amusement is one thing; enjoyment of art is another.

I look on Britain as a new world, which it is almost madness to invade.

Sometimes a story is like a beehive. Sometimes an idea is like a poem.

I know quite well that I’m still a beginner and have a long way to go.

Are these poems just cumbersome or a critique of cumbersomeness?

I lost myself in their minds: for the moment I actually became them.

This morning I watched two elephants dance the boogie-woogie.

Sing so dogs bark, oxen bolt. Sing so a girl walks out on her lover.

He was trying to seduce me with his history, which was mine as well.

Young people have a gift for reviving freshness of language.

I found myself alone on the train in possession only of Knoll’s journal.

“I—I am Martin Eden,” Martin began. (“And I want my five dollars.")

I try to imagine him wanting only a Toblerone bar for his birthday.

Debra Hughes

How do our lives disappear even while we’re in the midst of them?

She began to see the word, or traces of it, wherever she went.

He came into town with his big red pen and began revising us.

Who was responsible for my father not living up to expectations?

My books, I can hardly read them, they make so much sense.