People Write To Me All The Time

In Spite Of All The Refinements Of Civilization That Conspired To Make Art--the Dizzying Perfection Of The String Quartet Or The Sprawling Grandeur Of Fragonard's Canvases--beauty Was Savage. It Was As Dangerous And Lawless As The Earth Had Been Eons Before Man Had One Single Coherent Thought In His Head Or Wrote Codes Of Conduct On Tablets Of Clay. Beauty Was A Savage Garden.

We Are Predators, Whose All-seeing Eyes Were Meant To Give Them Detachment.

The World Doesn't Need Any More Mediocrity Or Hedged Bets.

... What I Fear In Writing Is The Safe Decision.

The World Changes, We Do Not, Therein Lies The Irony That Kills Us.