Writing, At Least A Craft And At

By The Time I Was 9, I Had The Conviction That Everybody In The World Was An Artist Except Plumbers Or People Who Delivered Groceries.

Intellect Has Nothing To Do With Equality Except To Respect It As A Sublime Convention.

Maxims In Times Of Danger Are Useless, Experience Is Incommunicable. The Knotted Strands Of Life, Desire, Assumptions, And Moral Codes Cannot Be Unsnarled; They Can Only Be Cut, Which Is What Happens When An Air Raid Occurs, With A Silencing Fortissimo Like The Finale Of A Beethoven Symphony.

When People Accept Futility And The Absurd As Normal, The Culture Is Decadent.

History, Like A Vast River, Propels Logs, Vegetation, Rafts, And Debris; It Is Full Of Live And Dead Things, Some Destined For Resurrection; It Mingles Many Waters And Holds In Solution Invisible Substances Stolen From Distant Soils.