Art Gropes. It Stalks Like

The True Artist Plays Mad With His Soul, Labors At The Very Lip Of The Volcano, But Remembers And Clings To His Purpose, Which Is As Strong As The Dream. He Is Not Someone Possessed, Like Cassandra, But A Passionate, Easily Tempted Explorer Who Fully Intends To Get Home Again, Like Odysseus.

The Image-managers Encourage The Individual To Fashion Himself Into A Smooth Coin, Negotiable In Any Market.

One Must Be Just A Little Crazy To Write A Great Novel. One Must Be Capable Of Allowing The Darkest, Most Ancient And Shrewd Parts Of One’s Being To Take Over The Work From Time To Time.

They Watch On, Evil, Incredibly Stupid, Enjoying My Destruction. 'poor Grendel's Had An Accident,' I Whisper. 'so May You All.

I Couldn't Go On, Too Conscious All At Once Of My Whispering, My Eternal Posturing, Always Transforming The World With Words--changing Nothing.