The Short-story Writer Knows That He Can't

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.

In Quoting Others, We Cite Ourselves.

For Me The Thing That Signals A Great Story Is What We Might Call Its Autonomy, The Fact That It Detaches Itself From Its Author Like A Soap Bubble Blown From A Clay Pipe.

Salt And The Center Of The World Have To Be There, In That Spot On The Tablecloth.

I Have Never Described This To You Before, Not So Much, I Don't Think, From Lack Of Truthfulness As That, Just Naturally, One Is Not Going To Explain To People At Large That From Time To Time One Vomits Up A Small Rabbit.