Like An Ox-cart Driver In Monsoon Season

I Particularly Scorn My Fondness For Paradox. I Despise Pessimism, Narcissism, Solipsism, Truculence, Word-play, And Pusillanimity, My Chiefer Inclinations; Loathe Self-loathers Ergo Me; Have No Pity For Self-pity And So Am Free Of That Sweet Baseness. I Doubt I Am. Being Me’s No Joke.

You Don't Reach Serendib By Plotting A Course For It. You Have To Set Out In Good Faith For Elsewhere And Lose Your Bearings... Serendipitously.

In Art As In Lovemaking, Heartfelt Ineptitude Has Its Appeal And So Does Heartless Skill, But What You Want Is Passionate Virtuosity.

To Turn Experience Into Speech - That Is, To Classify, To Categorize, To Conceptualize, To Grammarize, To Syntactify It - Is Always A Betrayal Of Experience, A Falsification Of It; But Only So Betrayed Can It Be Dealt With At All, And Only In So Dealing With It Did I Ever Feel A Man, Alive And Kicking.

All Men Are Loyal, But Their Objects Of Allegiance Are At Best Approximate.