For many years I had wanted to have a room of my own in a house of my own making, and when the opportunity came I went ahead and did it. 

It was an early spring late afternoon. It had been raining, and the cobblestone “streets” of Père Lachaise cemetery were still wet. The sky looked all grey and wet too, just beautiful.

The best day I remember was the Easter we lived in Detroit, locked in the apartment all day. The furniture, the rugs, began to breathe. Geraniums hummed. I thought, so this is a lively place.

They’re nothing new, you can read about the Leather Man for instance, a hundred years ago making his circuit through Westchester, Connecticut, into the Berkshires in the summer

Lorenzo is a quiet, even-tempered man of independent means who has come to accept full-fledged addiction to his playthings. Waking up in the middle of the night, he stares across his moonlit

My father used to say about my mother that she read so many books, he could hear pages turning inside her when she lay down beside him at night.

The night Kris was born, two-hundred and fifty miles from my house, I was fourteen, and I had the experience of the white light during sleep.

Page i (Introduction): For “The problem abstraction” read “The problem of abstraction.” Page iii (Introduction): To “Finally, my thanks to the Graph Arts Press, for their assistance in the compilation

Borealis‚ the story which follows, was written by the French short-story writer/academician Paul Morand (1888-1916) and translated in 1922 by Ezra Pound.

Leo was from a long time ago, the first one I ever saw nude. In the spring before the Hellmans filled their pool, we’d go down there in the deep end, with baby oil, and like that.