I Write Because I Hate. A Lot.

For The Speedy Reader Paragraphs Become A Country The Eye Flies Over Looking For Landmarks, Reference Points, Airports, Restrooms, Passages Of Sex.

It Art Can Only Succeed Through The Cooperating Imagination And Intelligence Of Its Consumers, Who Fill Out, For Themselves, The Artist's World And Make It Round, And Whose Own Special Genius Partly Determine The Ultimate Glory Of It.

Literature Is Composed Of Quarter Truths, And The Quarters Are Often Spent On Penny Candy.

The Things That Stayed Were Things That Didn't Matter Except They Stayed, Night And Day, All Seasons The Same, And Were Peaceful To A Fault And Boded No Ill But Thought Well Enough Of Themselves To Repeat Their Presences.

I Do Think Of My Reader, Or Listener, Really, More Often, If I Give A Lecture, For Example, And I Know That I'm Talking To These People; I Enjoy Sort Of Preening Them A Bit. But It's A Matter Of Decorum, Basically.