Write About What You're Afraid Of.

The Aim Of Literature ... Is The Creation Of A Strange Object Covered With Fur Which Breaks Your Heart.

He Is Mad About Being Small When You Were Big, But No, That's Not It, He Is Mad About Being Helpless When You Were Powerful, But No, Not That Either, He Is Mad About Being Contingent When You Were Necessary, Not Quite It... He Is Insane Because When He Loved You, You Didn't Notice.

The Task Is Not So Much To Solve Problems As To Propose Questions.

His Examiner Said Severely: "baskerville, You Blank Round, Discursiveness Is Not Literature." "the Aim Of Literature," Baskerville Replied Grandly, "is The Creation Of A Strange Object Covered With Fur Which Breaks Your Heart."

It Is Difficult To Keep The Public Interested. The Public Demands New Wonders Piled On New Wonders. Often We Don't Know Where Our Next Marvel Is Coming From. The Supply Of Strange Ideas Is Not Endless.