Words Are The Supreme Objects.

Knowing Has Two Poles, And They Are Always Poles Apart: Carnal Knowing, The Laying On Of Hands, The Hanging Of The Fact By Head Or Heels, The Measurement Of Mass And Motion, The Calibration Of Brutal Blows, The Counting Of Supplies; And Spiritual Knowing, Invisibly Felt By The Inside Self, Who Is But A Fought-over Field Of Distraction, A Stage Where We Recite The Monotonous Monologue That Is Our Life, A Knowing Governed By Internal Tides, By Intimations, Motives, Resolutions, By Temptations, Secrecy, Shame, And Pride.

Only The Slow Reader Will Notice The Odd Crowd Of Images-flier, Butcher, Seal-which Have Gathered To Comment On The Aims And Activities Of The Speeding Reader, Perhaps Like Gossips At A Wedding.

If You Were A Fully Realized Person-whatever The Hell That Would Be-you Wouldn't Fool Around Writing Books.

My Face Is Muffled In My Mother's Clothing. Her Rhinestones Injure Me. See: My Feet Are Going. Fish Flee The Forefinger Of My Aunt. The Sun Streams Over The Geraniums. What Has This To Do With What I Feel, With What I Am.

For Me, The Short Story Is Not A Character Sketch, A Mouse Trap, An Epiphany, A Slice Of Suburban Life. It Is The Flowering Of A Symbol Center. It Is A Poem Grafted Onto Sturdier Stock.