A myth is the name of a terrible lie told by a smelly little brown person to a man in a white suit with a pair of binoculars.
While I've had a great distaste for what's usually called song in modern poetry or for what's usually called music, I really don't think of speech as so far from song.
I had no idea where these kids at a small private college in the San Fernando Valley were coming from, why they were coming to hear me, or what they needed to know.
When you grow up in a family of languages, you develop a kind of casual fluency, so that languages, though differently colored, all seem transparent to experience.
I'm not sure what theory is, unless it's the pursuit of fundamental questions.
I can manage a prose format as long as I keep closer to Laurence Sterne than to Henry James.
I've always had a strong feeling for the Statue of Liberty, because it became the statue of my personal liberty.
I learned enough Hebrew to stagger through a meaningless ceremony that I scarcely remember.
I am quite unsatisfied by the distinctions between the oral and literate.
