People Endure What They Endure

There's No End To The Inventiveness Of Critics, I Tell You. Because They Can't Write Fiction, They Put Their Impulse Into Their Analysis Of Work.

The More My Work Improves Or Broadens Or Widens, The More Surely I Tame Myself.

That Vision Of A Common Culture Is Now Simply A Remote Wistfulness.

Ideals Jump Across The Hierarchies Of The Printed Word.

You Have To Assert Something About Yourself In Order To Be Yourself.