For The Serious Artist Does Not Satisfy

The Book I Am Best Known For, Or Only Known For, Is A Novel I Am Prepared To Repudiate: Written A Quarter Of A Century Ago, A Jeu D'esprit Knocked Off For Money In Three Weeks, It Became Known As The Raw Material For A Film Which Seemed To Glorify Sex And Violence. The Film Made It Easy For Readers Of The Book To Misunderstand What It Was About, And The Misunderstanding Will Pursue Me Till I Die. I Should Not Have Written The Book Because Of This Danger Of Misinterpretation.

The Aura Of The Theocratic Death Penalty For Adultery Still Clings To America, Even Outside New England, And Multiple Divorce, Which Looks To The European Like Serial Polygamy, Is The Moral Solution To The Problem Of The Itch. Love Comes Into It Too, Of Course, But In Europe We Tend To See Marital Love As An Eternity Which Encompasses Hate And Also Indifference: When We Promise To Love We Really Mean That We Promise To Honor A Contract. Americans, Seeming To Take Marriage With Not Enough Seriousness, Are Really Taking Love And Sex With Too Much.

As We Are All Solipsists, And All Die, The World Dies With Us. Only Very Minor Literature Aims At Apocalypse.

But, Brothers, This Biting Of Their Toe-nails Over What Is The Cause Of Badness Is What Turns Me Into A Fine Laughing Malchick. They Don't Go Into What Is The Cause Of Goodness, So Why Of The Other Shop?

Come With Uncle And Hear All Proper. Hear Angel Trumpets And Devil Trombones...you Are Invited!