Queen of England
Dewy and I were not good sons. At home, we sliced the drapes to make togas and blasted birds with pellet guns we weren’t supposed to have. To make our mother nervous, . . .
Hell and Reason
In February 1943, as a boy just shy of his eighteenth birthday, Charles Fisk wrote home to his parents in Massachusetts: “The work I am doing means nothing to me. . . .
is the most important. Everything else is just an excuse for it.
E.g. weather in medium shot that you take extremely
seriously. . . .
Women Are Doomed to Be the Angels of Love
This is so true I involuntarily doodle hearts everywhere I go. I sign my letters compulsively with hearts,
dream of disobedient hearts, work with hearts. I eat them. . . .