There Was No Particular Point At Which

Best Not To Anticipate Too Much ... It Jiggles The Possibilities.

We Like Books That Have A Lot Of Dreck In Them, Matter Which Presents Itself As Not Wholly Relevant (or Indeed, At All Relevant) But Which, Carefully Attended To, Can Supply A Kind Of "sense" Of What Is Going On. This "sense" Is Not To Be Obtained By Reading Between The Lines (for There Is Nothing There, In Those White Spaces) But By Reading The Lines Themselves Looking At Them And So Arriving At A Feeling Not Of Satisfaction Exactly, That Is Too Much To Expect, But Of Having Read Them, Of Having "completed" Them.

Naked Girls With The Heads Of Marx And Malraux Prone And Helpless In The Glare Of The Headlights, Tried To Give Them A Little Joie De Vivre But Maybe It Didn't Take, Their Constant Bickering And Smallness, It's Like A Stroke Of Lightning, The World Reminds You Of Its Power, Tracheotomies Right And Left, I Am Spinning, My Pretty Child, Don't Scratch, Pick Up Your Feet, The Long Nights, Spent Most Of My Time Listening, This Is A Test Of The System, This Is Only A Test.

There Was No Particular Point At Which I Stopped Being Promising.

As Jules Renard Said, No Matter How Much Care An Author Takes To Write As Few Books As Possible, There Will Be People Who Haven't Heard Of Some Of Them.