Anyone Who Teaches Knows That You Don't

My Self Is All To Me. I Don't Have Any Need Of You.

For The Writer, The Serial Killer Is, Abstractly, An Analogue Of The Imagination's Caprices And Amorality; The Sense That, No Matter The Dictates And Even The Wishes Of The Conscious Social Self, The Life Or Will Or Purpose Of The Imagination Is Incomprehensible, Unpredictable.

The Folly Of War Is That It Can Have No Natural End Except In The Extinction An Entire People.

Only When Men Are Connected To Large, Universal Goals Are They Really Happy-and One Result Of Their Happiness Is A Rush Of Creative Activity.

Of Our Hurts We Make Monuments Of Survival. If We Survive.