The Novel Wins By Points, The Short

Skill Alone Cannot Teach Or Produce A Great Short Story, Which Condenses The Obsession Of The Creature; It Is A Hallucinatory Presence Manifest From The First Sentence To Fascinate The Reader, To Make Him Lose Contact With The Dull Reality That Surrounds Him, Submerging Him In Another That Is More Intense And Compelling.

In Quoting Others, We Cite Ourselves.

Now That I Think About It, It Seems To Me That’s What Idiocy Is: The Ability To Be Enthusiastic All The Time About Anything You Like, So That A Drawing On The Wall Does Not Have To Be Diminished By The Memory Of The Frescoes Of Giotto In Padua.

You're Like A Witness. You're The One Who Goes To The Museum And Looks At The Paintings. I Mean The Paintings Are There And You're In The Museum Too, Near And Far Away At The Same Time. I'm A Painting. Rocamadour Is A Painting. Etienne Is A Painting, This Room Is A Painting. You Think That You're In The Room But You're Not. You're Looking At The Room, You're Not In The Room.

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