The Evolution From Happiness To Habit Is

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.

Everything Can Be Killed Except Nostalgia For The Kingdom, We Carry It In The Color Of Our Eyes, In Every Love Affair, In Everything That Deeply Torments And Unties And Tricks.

Where Are The Beginnings, The Endings, And Most Important, The Middles?

I Raised The Camera, Pretended To Study A Focus Which Did Not Include Them, And Waited And Watched Closely, Sure That I Would Finally Catch The Revealing Expression, One That Would Sum It All Up, Life That Is Rhythmed By Movement But Which A Stiff Image Destroys, Taking Time In Cross Section, If We Do Not Choose The Essential Imperceptible Fraction Of It.

What Good Is A Writer If He Can't Destroy Literature? And Us... What Good Are We If We Don't Help As Much As We Can In That Destruction?