From 1968 On, I Was Pretty Much

A Sentence Has Meaning In The Sense That A Train Has A Track, Not That A Train Has A Passenger.

I Am In Terror Of The Infinity Before Me, Having Come Through The One Behind Bringing No Knowledge I Can Take On.

The Artist Has Some Internal Experience That Produces A Poem, A Painting, A Piece Of Music. Spectators Submit Themselves To The Work, Which Generates An Inner Experience For Them. But Historically It's A Very New, Not To Mention Vulgar, Idea That The Spectator's Experience Should Be Identical To, Or Even Have Anything To Do With, The Artist's. That Idea Comes From An Over-industrialized Society Which Has Learned To Distrust Magic.

Fiction -- At Least For Me -- Requires Long, Relatively Uninterrupted Time Stretches In Which To Bring It To Fruition. I've Never Been A Two-hour-in-the-morning Writer, Who Could Put In Another Six Hours On Sunday Afternoon. For Me, A Novel Requires Weeks Of Living In A Largely Mental And Wholly Internal Landscape. Everything Else Has To Be Relegated To The Odd Hour Here, The Bit Of Time There. Sadly, However, Uninterrupted Time Blocks Are Not What Life Doles Out Today To Any Of Us With Regularity.

The Pulp Hero, Though He May Be A Renegade, Is A Guy Who Doesn't Feel. Anything. Ever. And For The Adolescent Male - Pummeled By Emotions Left And Right, Whether Arising From Sexuality Or Resulting From His Necessary Encounters With Authority - This Hero Is A Blessing, A Relief And A Release. The World He Lives In, Where Feelings Are Totally Under Control, Looks To The Adolescent Boy Like Heaven! This Hero's Lack Of Feeling - Like Star Trek's Spock - Is What Allows Him To Be A Genius, Or Allows Him To Shoot The Bad Guys And/or Aliens, Without A Quiver To His Lip.