A Good Title Should Be Like A

Ooooh," Kate Groans, Kate Herself Now. "i'm So Afraid." "i Know." "what Am I Going To Do?" "you Mean Right Now?" "yes." "we'll Go To My Car. Then We'll Drive Down To The French Market And Get Some Coffee. Then We'll Go Home." "is Everything Going To Be All Right?" "yes." "tell Me. Say It." "everything Is Going To Be All Right.

A Novel Is What You Call Something That Won't Sell If You Call It Poems Or Short Stories.

The Mystery Lies In The Here And Now. The Mystery Is: What Is One To Do With Oneself? As You Get Older You Begin To Realize The Trick Time Is Playing, And That Unless You Do Something About It, The Passage Of Time Is Nothing But The Encroachment Of The Horrible Banality Of The Past On The Pure Future. The Past Devours The Future Like A Tape Recorder, Converting Pure Possibility Into Banality. The Present Is The Tape Head, The Mouth Of Time. Then Where Is The Mystery And Why Bother Kicking Through The Ashes? Because There Is A Clue In The Past.

Why Is It That One Can Look At A Lion Or A Planet Or An Owl Or At Someone's Finger As Long As One Pleases, But Looking Into The Eyes Of Another Person Is, If Prolonged Past A Second, A Perilous Affair?

Why Is There Such A Gap Between Nonspeaking Animals And Speaking Man, When There Is No Other Such Gap In Nature?