The Ordinary Is The Divine.

A Writer Is Dreamed And Transfigured Into Being By Spells, Wishes, Goldfish, Silhouettes Of Trees, Boxes Of Fairy Tales Dropped In The Mud, Uncles' And Cousins' Books, Tablets And Capsules And Powders...and Then One Day You Find Yourself Leaning Here, Writing On That Round Glass Table Salvaged From The Park View Pharmacy--writing This, An Impossibility, A Summary Of Who You Came To Be Where You Are Now, And Where, God Knows, Is That?

One Reason Writers Write Is Out Of Revenge.

I Think About Fanaticism - Oblivion Awaits, Especially For Minor Writers, So You Have To Be A Fanatic; You Have To Be A Crank To Keep Going, But On The Other Hand, What Else Would You Do With The Rest Of Your Life? You Gotta Do Something.

Wars, Invented And Organized By The Highest Available Consciousnesses (do The Worms Go To War? Do The Fish? Do The Paramecia?), Are The Planet's Chief Source And Cause Of Torment.

Much Of The Academy On The Humanities Side, English Departments In Particular, No Longer Write What Can Pass For Normal English.