I Took My Writing Seriously, And It

There Is No Articulate Resonance. The Common Problem, I Suppose, Is To Have More To Say Than Vocabulary And Syntax Can Bear. That Is Why I Am Hunting In These Desiccated Streets. The Smoke Hides The Sky's Variety, Stains Consciousness, Covers The Holocaust With Something Safe And Insubstantial. It Protects From Greater Flame. It Indicates Fire, But Obscures The Source. This Is Not A Useful City. Very Little Here Approaches Any Eidolon Of The Beautiful.

There Is A Sense Of Decency That's Like A Barometer To A Man's Or A Country's Health.

Each Of Us, With Money, Gets Further And Further Away From Those Moments Where The Hand Pulls The Beet Root From The Soil, Shakes The Fish From The Net Into The Basket -- Not To Mention The Way It Separates Us From One Another, So That When Enough Money Comes Between People, They Lie Apart Like Parts Of A Chicken Hacked Up For Stewing.

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.

As A Prose Writer, I Work With Language; And Those Who Work With Language Turn To Poetry For Renewal.