Poor Grendel's Had An Accident. So May

When People Are Serving, Life Is No Longer Meaningless.

Writing A Novel Is Like Heading Out Over The Open Sea In A Small Boat. It Helps, If You Have A Plan And A Course Laid Out.

In University Courses We Do Exercises. Term Papers, Quizzes, Final Examinations Are Not Meant For Publication. We Move Through A Course On Dostoevsky Or Poe As We Move Through A Mildly Good Cocktail Party, Picking Up The Good Bits Of Food Or Conversation, Bearing With The Rest, Going Home When It Comes To Seem The Reasonable Thing To Do. Art, At Those Moments When It Feels Most Like Art -- When We Feel Most Alive, Most Alert, Most Triumphant -- Is Less Like A Cocktail Party Than A Tank Full Of Sharks.

I Understand That The World Was Nothing: A Mechanical Chaos Of Casual, Brute Enmity On Which We Stupidly Impose Our Hopes And Fears. I Understood That, Finally And Absolutely, I Alone Exist. All The Rest, I Saw, Is Merely What Pushes Me, Or What I Push Against, Blindly - As Blindly As All That Is Not Myself Pushes Back. I Create The Whole Universe, Blink By Blink.

We Know That Where Community Exists In Confers Upon Its Members Identity, A Sense Of Belonging, And A Measure Of Security. . . . Communities Are The Ground-level Generators And Preservers Of Values And Ethical Systems.