Now That I Think About It, It

The Novel Wins By Points, The Short Story By Knockout.

Literature Is ... A Game, But It's A Game One Can Put One's Life Into.

But What Is Memory If Not The Language Of Feeling, A Dictionary Of Faces And Days And Smells Which Repeat Themselves Like The Verbs And Adjectives In A Speech, Sneaking In Behind The Thing Itself,into The Pure Present, Making Us Sad Or Teaching Us Vicariously.

The More A Book Is Like An Opium Pipe, The More The Chinaman Reader Is Satisfied With It And Tends To Discuss The Quality Of The Drug Rather Than Its Lethargic Effects.

Before Going Back To Sleep I Imagined (i Saw) A Plastic Universe, Changeable, Full Of Wondrous Chance, An Elastic Sky, A Sun That Suddenly Is Missing Or Remains Fixed Or Changes Its Shape.