Once In A While It Happens That

Human History Is The Sad Result Of Each One Looking Out For Himself.

Memory Is A Mirror That Scandalously Lies.

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

The Short-story Writer Knows That He Can't Proceed Cumulatively, That Time Is Not His Ally. His Only Solution Is To Work Vertically, Heading Up Or Down In Literary Space.

Only In Dreams, In Poetry, In Play Do We Sometimes Arrive At What We Were Before We Were This Thing That, Who Knows, We Are.