The Art Of The Novel Is To

I Have Always Had This Very Strong, Call It A Feeling, Call It A Prejudice, Call It A Conviction ... That The Mysteries Are Not Easily Available. You Have To Earn Entrance Into Them. You Didn't Learn Things For Too Little. You Had To Pay A Price. And I Felt That Lsd Was Just Blasting Superhighways Into The Mysteries. And What I Really Didn't Like About Lsd Is That People Who Were Taking It Were Seeming To Become Less And Less As They Took It. They Got Emptier And More Vapid.

I Had The Idea That There Were Two Worlds. There Was A Real World As I Called It, A World Of Wars And Boxing Clubs And Children'shomes On Back Streets, And This Real World Was A World Where Orphans Burned Orphans.... I Liked The Other World In Which Almost Everyone Lived. The Imaginary World.

The Sense Of A Long Last Night Over Civilization Is Back Again; It Has Perhaps Not Been Here So Intensely In Thirty Years, Not Since The Nazis Were Prospering, But It Is Coming Back.

I Think The Internet Is The Greatest Waste Of Time Since Masturbation Was Discovered.

Like All Men Who Are Napoleonic In Their Ambitionshe Has Instincts About The Nature Of Growth, A Lover's Sense Of The Momentof Crisis, And He Knewhow Costly Is Defeat When It Is Not Soothed By Greater Consciousness, And How Wasteful Is The Profit Of Victory When There Is Not The Courage To Employ It.