In twelfth and thirteenth, the two Jaguars of Eddie Irvine.

Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive
If you will lead these graces to the grave
And leave the world no copy.

There was roast hog, of course, braised mutton, and casserole of the tenderest beef. Platters of trout and salmon gleamed like treasure, dressed with mint and parsley sauces. Dishes of glossy prunes and dates shipped from an unknowable country sat amid roasted apples, delicate custards, and jewel-colored jellies.

From my thirteenth year on, it was clear to me that I wanted to be a poet or nothing at all.

Reading can be dangerous.

I can hardly forbear hurling things at him.