I Should Like To Suggest That At

The Speeding Reader Guts A Book The Way The Skillful Clean Fish. The Gills Are Gone, The Tail, The Scales, The Fins; Then The Fillet Slides Away Swifly As Though Fed To A Seal.

It Is Discouraging To Leave The Past Behind Only To See It Coming Toward You Like The Thunderstorm Which Drenched You Yesterday.

I Was Struck By The Way In Which Meanings Are Historically Attached To Words: It Is So Accidental, So Remote, So Twisted. A Word Is Like A Schoolgirl's Room--a Complete Mess--so The Great Thing Is To Make Out A Way Of Seeing It All As Ordered, As Right, As Inferred And Following.

If There Were Genders To Genres, Fiction Would Be Unquestionably Feminine.

We Must Take Our Sentences Seriously, Which Means We Must Understand Them Philosophically, And The Odd Thing Is That The Few Who Do, Who Take Them With Utter Sober Seriousness, The Utter Sober Seriousness Of Right-wing Parsons And Political Saviors, The Owners Of Pomeranians, Are The Liars Who Want To Be Believed, The Novelists And Poets, Who Know That The Creatures They Imagine Have No Other Being Than The Sounding Syllables Which The Reader Will Speak Into His Own Weary And Distracted Head. There Are No Magic Words. To Say The Words Is Magical Enough.