We Often Take For Granted The Very

Women Who Write With An Overriding Consciousness That They Write As Women Are Engaged Not In Aspiration Toward Writing, But Chiefly In A Politics Of Sex.

We Are So Placid That The Smallest Tremor Of Objection Is Taken As A Full-scale Revolution.

Invention Despoils Observations, Insinuation Invalidates Memory. A Stewpot Of Bad Habits, All Of It - So That Imaginative Writers Wind Up, By And Large, A Shifty Crew, Sunk In Distortion, Misrepresentation, Illusion, Imposture, Fakery.

Bohemia And All Its Works Are Vanished Out Of America; Or, More Exactly, Bohemia Has Migrated To The Middle Class, And Is Alive And Well In Condo And Suburb.

What's Impossible Not To Notice, Though - It's All Around Us - Is The Diminution Of American Prose: How Pedestrian It Has Become. Pick Up Any Short Story And Listen To Its Voice, The Tedious Easy Vernacular That Mistakes Transcription For Realism. This Would Display An Understandable Pragmatism If It Were A Pandering To Common-denominator Readers; But It Is, In Fact, A Kind Of Hifalultin Literary Ideology, The Less-is-more Hemingway Legacy Put Through An Up-to-the-minute Industrial Blender.