The Truth Is The Light And The

The World Is Just As Concrete, Ornery, Vile, And Sublimely Wonderful As Before, Only Now I Better Understand My Relation To It And It To Me.

The Act Of Writing Requires A Constant Plunging Back Into The Shadow Of The Past Where Time Hovers Ghostlike.

If You Can Show Me How I Can Cling To That Which Is Real To Me, While Teaching Me A Way Into The Larger Society, Then And Only Then Will I Drop My Defenses And Hostility, And I Will Sing Your Praises And Help You To Make The Desert Bear Fruit.

If Social Protest Is Antithetical To Art, What Then Shall We Make Of Goya, Dickens, And Twain?

I Am An Invisible Man. No, I Am Not A Spook Like Those Who Haunted Edgar Allan Poe; Nor Am I One Of Your Hollywood-movie Ectoplasms.