Upon The Demon-ridden Pilgrimage Of Human Life,

Almost Any Tale Of Our Doings Is Comic. We Are Bottomlessly Comic To Each Other. Even The Most Adored And Beloved Person Is Comic To His Lover. The Novel Is A Comic Form. Language Is A Comic Form, And Makes Jokes In Its Sleep. God, If He Existed, Would Laugh At His Creation. Yet It Is Also The Case That Life Is Horrible, Without Metaphysical Sense, Wrecked By Chance, Pain And The Close Prospect Of Death. Out Of This Is Born Irony, Our Dangerous And Necessary Tool.

I Think The Novel Is Essentially A Comic Form (tragedy Is For The Theatre), Not Meaning By That Full Of Jokes, But That It Is About The Absurd Detail Of Human Life, The Way In Which One Cannot Fully Understand What Is Happening. Life Is Muddle And Jumble And Ends Inconclusively, And When This Is Presented With Great Comic Art The Sorrows Of Human Life Can Be Truthfully Conveyed; One Is Moved By The Spectacle, And Feels That Something Truthful Has Been Told In A Magic Way.

So We Live; A Spirit That Broods And Hovers Over The Continual Death Of Time, The Lost Meaning, The Unrecaptured Moment, The Unremembered Face, Until The Final Chop That Ends All Our Moments And Plunges That Spirit Back Into The Void From Which It Came.

Man's Creative Struggle, His Search For Wisdom And Truth, Is A Love Story.

To Be Understood Is Not A Human Right. Even To Understand Oneself Is Not A Human Right.