“Pity the planet, all joy gonefrom this sweet volcanic cone;peace to our children when they fallin small war on the heel of smallwar--until the end of timeto police the earth, a ghostorbiting forever lostin our monotonous sublime”

“No weekends for the gods now. Warsflicker, earth licks its open sores,fresh breakage, fresh promotions, chanceassassinations, no advance.Only man thinning out his own kindsounds through the Sabbath noon, the blindswipe of the pruner and his knifebusy about the tree of life...Pity the planet, all joy gonefrom this sweet volcanic cone;peace to our children when they fallin small war on the heels of smallwar - until the end of timeto police th eearth, a ghostorbiting forever lostin our monotonous sublime.”

“Tockytock, tockytockclumped our Alpine, Edwardian cuckoo clock,slung with strangled, wooden game.”

“In the end, there is no end.”

“In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.”

“The light at the end of the tunnel is just the light of an oncoming train.”

“We are all old-timers,each of us holds a locked razor.”