There Is No Limit To Desire But

They Watch On, Evil, Incredibly Stupid, Enjoying My Destruction. 'poor Grendel's Had An Accident,' I Whisper. 'so May You All.

I Know Everything, You See,' The Old Voice Wheedled. 'the Beginning, The Present, The End. Everything. You Now, You See The Past And The Present, Like Other Low Creatures: No Higher Faculties Than Memory And Perception. But Dragons, My Boy, Have A Whole Different Kind Of Mind.' He Stretched His Mouth In A Kind Of Smile, No Trace Of Pleasure In It. 'we Are From The Mountaintop: All Time, All Space. We See In One Instant The Passionate Vision And The Blowout.

So Childhood Too Feels Good At First, Before One Happens To Notice The Terrible Sameness, Age After Age.

Fiction Does Not Spring Into The World Fully Grown, Like Athena. It Is The Process Of Writing And Rewriting That Makes A Fiction Original, If Not Profound.

As Every Writer Knows... There Is Something Mysterious About The Writer's Ability, On Any Given Day, To Write. When The Juices Are Flowing, Or The Writer Is 'hot', An Invisible Wall Seems To Fall Away, And The Writer Moves Easily And Surely From One Kind Of Reality To Another... Every Writer Has Experienced At Least Moments Of This Strange, Magical State. Reading Student Fiction One Can Spot At Once Where The Power Turns On And Where It Turns Off, Where The Writer Writes From 'inspiration' Or Deep, Flowing Vision, And Where He Had To Struggle Along On Mere Intellect.