Nobody Knew How To Be What They

If You Are A Novelist Of A Certain Type Of Termperament, Then What You Really Want To Do Is Re-invent The World. God Wasn't Too Bad A Novelist Except He Was A Realist.

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.

Choosing Is Existence. To The Extent That You Don't Choose, You Don't Exist.

The Genie Declared That In His Time And Place There Were Scientists Of The Passions Who Maintained That Language Itself, On The One Hand, Originated In 'infantile Pregenital Erotic Exuberance, Polymorphously Perverse,' And That Conscious Attention, On The Other, Was A 'libidinal Hypercathexis' - By Which Magic Phrases They Seemed To Mean That Writing And Reading, Or Telling And Listening, Were Literally Ways Of Making Love.

Though Life's Tuition Is Always Ruinous, Inexorably We Learn.