Sometimes I Don't Write At

There Are Moments In Life When It Is All Turned Inside Out--what Is Real Becomes Unreal, What Is Unreal Becomes Tangible, And All Your Levelheaded Efforts To Keep A Tight Ontological Control Are Rendered Silly And Indulgent.

I'm A Dilettante By Temperament. I Don't Have Any Expectation.

There Has To Be A Kind Of Grassroots Push, A Movement, As It Were, Against The Inherent Isolationism Of American Capitalism As Practiced In The Publishing Industry. There Need To Be Grants And Government Support And A Few Publishers, Mainstream And Independent, Who Are Not Afraid To Challenge American Readership. We Need To Build A Network Of Translators, Publishers And Readers. We Hope That Our Annual Anthology Might Provide An Upsurge In Interest For European Fiction And Then, As We Publish It Every Year, Become A Habit To Many Readers.

I Am Itching To Criticize Some Well-regarded Writers' Works, But I Am Not Doing It Because I Am Perfectly Aware That My Critique Could Easily Be Reduced To Envy Or Just Plain Meanness.

I Wish I Could Avoid The People Who Have Threatened Me. My Favorite Threat Is That I Will Be Thrown In The River Miljacka, Which Is At Most Knee-deep, With My Feet Bound In Cement.