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I hold my honey and I store my bread In little jars and cabinets of my will. I label clearly, and each latch and lid I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.

consider the big fists breaking your little bones, or consider the vague bureaucrats stumbling, fumbling through Paper.

And all the little people Will stare at me and say, 'That is the Crazy Woman Who would not sing in May.'

If a secret history of books could be written, and the author's private thoughts and meanings noted down alongside of his story, how many insipid volumes would…

I also bought a copy of The New York Times, the previous day's issue of which I had seen the previous day in Puerto Rico. I was interested in newspapers and kn…

There are certain common privileges of a writer, the benefit whereof, I hope, there will be no reason to doubt; particularly, that where I am not understood, i…