The Trouble With Words Is That You

There's No End To The Inventiveness Of Critics, I Tell You. Because They Can't Write Fiction, They Put Their Impulse Into Their Analysis Of Work.

People Endure What They Endure And They Deal With It. It May Corrupt Them. It May Lead Them Into All Sorts Of Compensatory Excesses.

The More My Work Improves Or Broadens Or Widens, The More Surely I Tame Myself.

Ideals Jump Across The Hierarchies Of The Printed Word.

Religion Has Always Been The Wound, Not The Bandage.