That's What Was Wrong With Drinking Too

In A World Of Monotonous Horror There Could Be No Salvation In Wild Dreaming.

I Hate It When Something I've Had Published "inspires" Some Nut To Imitate What I've Written, Or Some Teacher Gets Fired For Having Her Students Read One Of My Stories Or Novels.

(after Death.) So Few People Who Come Across, Possess Awareness Of Any Kind. All They Bring Along With Them Are Worthless Values. All They Desire Is Continuation Of What They Had In Life No Matter How Misguided Or Degraded. . . Will Those People Ever Progress, Even With Our Help?

When I'm Writing, Especially When I'm Writing In First Person, I Don't Think About The Characterization, Or How They Are Going To Express Themselves, I Just Express My Own Approach To These Things. I Think Most Writers Can Never Divorce Themselves From Their Private Lives And Personas; They Are The Ones That Are Writing. And The More They Remove Themselves From Their Own Persona, The More, Perhaps, Mechanical The Work Becomes.

Not Only Did I Rediscover Every Experience Of My Life, I Had To Live Each Unfulfilled Desire As Well—as Though They’d Been Fulfilled. I Saw That What Transpires In The Mind Is Just As Real As Any Flesh And Blood Occurrence. What Had Only Been Imagination In Life, Now Became Tangible, Each Fantasy A Full Reality. I Lived Them All—while, At The Same Time, Standing To The Side, A Witness To Their, Often, Intimate Squalor. A Witness Cursed With Total Objectivity.