Love Ain't Nothing But Sex Misspelled.

Time Is Like A River Flowing Endlessly Through The Universe. And If You Poled Your Flatboat In That River You Might Fight Your Way Against The Current And Travel Upstream Into The Past. Or Go With The Flow And Rush Into The Future. This Was In A Less Cynical Time Before Toxic Waste Dumping And Pollution Filled The Waterway Of Chronus With The Detritus Of Empty Hours Wasted Minutes Years Of Repetition And Time That Has Been Killed.

Because The Chief Commodity A Writer Has To Sell Is His Courage. And If He Has None, He Is More Than A Coward. He Is A Sellout And A Fink And A Heretic, Because Writing Is A Holy Chore.

My Philosophy Of Life Is That The Meek Shall Inherit Nothing But Debasement, Frustration, And Ignoble Deaths.

A Man May Truly Live In His Dreams, His Noblest Dreams, But Only, Only If He Is Worthy Of Those Dreams.

I Don't Know How You Perceive My Mission As A Writer, But For Me It Is Not A Responsibility To Reaffirm Your Concretized Myths And Provincial Prejudices. It Is Not My Job To Lull You With A False Sense Of The Rightness Of The Universe. This Wonderful And Terrible Occupation Of Recreating The World In A Different Way, Each Time Fresh And Strange, Is An Act Of Revolutionary Guerrilla Warfare. I Stir The Soup. I Inconvenience You. I Make Your Nose Run And Your Eyes Water.