We All Want To Be Guilty, Because

We Say Something Every Morning When We Decide How To Dress.

In A Sense Much Great Literature Is Subversive, Since Its Very Existence Implies That What Matters Is Art, Imagination, And Truth. In What We Call The Real World, On The Other Hand, What Usually Counts Is Money, Power, And Public Success.

If Nothing Will Finally Survive Of Life Besides What Artists Report Of It, We Have No Right To Report What We Know To Be Lies.

But I Think That Sometimes, When One's Behaved Like A Rather Second-rate Person, The Way I Did At Breakfast, Then In A Kind Of Self-destructive Shock One Goes And Does Something Really Second-rate. Almost As If To Prove It.

There Is A Peculiar Burning Odor In The Room, Like Explosives. The Kitchen Fills With Smoke And The Hot, Sweet, Ashy Smell Of Scorched Cookies. The War Has Begun.