--why Are We Fighting Them? --they're Mad.

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.

What An Artist Does, Is Fail. Any Reading Of The Literature, (i Mean The Literature Of Artistic Creation), However Summary, Will Persuade You Instantly That The Paradigmatic Artistic Experience Is That Of Failure. The Actualization Fails To Meet, Equal, The Intuition. There Is Something "out There" Which Cannot Be Brought "here". This Is Standard. I Don't Mean Bad Artists, I Mean Good Artists. There Is No Such Thing As A "successful Artist" (except, Of Course, In Worldly Terms).

The Privileged Classes Can Afford Psychoanalysis And Whiskey. Whereas All We Get Is Sermons And Sour Wine. This Is Manifestly Unfair. I Protest, Silently.

Well Chaps First I'd Like To Say A Few Vile Things More Or Less At Random, Not Only Because It Is Expected Of Me But Also Because I Enjoy It.

The Writer Is One Who, Emnbarking Upon A Task, Does Not Know What To Do.