...writing Fiction...is No Job For Intellectual Cowards.

The Workman Cut To The Left, Still Laying On His Horn, And Roared Around The Drunkenly Weaving Limousine. He Invited The Driver Of The Limo To Perform An Illegal Sex Act On Himself. To Engage In Oral Congress With Various Rodents And Birds. He Articulated His Own Proposal That All Persons Of Negro Blood Return To Their Native Continent. He Expressed His Sincere Belief In The Position The Limo Driver's Soul Would Occupy In The Afterlife. He Finished By Saying That He Believed He Had Met The Limodriver's Mother In A New Orleans House Of Prostitution.

Nightmares Exist Outside Of Logic, And There's Little Fun To Be Had In Explanations; They're Antithetical To The Poetry Of Fear.

On The Day Of My Judgment, When I Stand Before God, And He Asks Me Why Did I Kill One Of His True Miracles, What Am I Gonna Say? That It Was My Job? My Job?

I And Everyone Else In This World Live In What Is Probably The Most Difficult Times That Have Ever Been. We Are Facing Total Thermonuclear Destruction; And, If You Can Make Someone Believe In A Ghost Or A Demon Or A Vampire In The Face Of That, You Are Doing Well. From My Own Personal Point Of View, I Don't Think Just Blood And Guts Is Enough. At Least, It Isn't For Me. Maybe It Will Turn Someone's Stomach; But, I'm Not Sure That Is Literature Or Even Entertainment.

You Couldn't Get Hold Of The Things You'd Done And Turn Them Right Again. Such A Power Might Be Given To The Gods, But It Was Not Given To Women And Men, And That Was Probably A Good Thing. Had It Been Otherwise, People Would Probably Die Of Old Age Still Trying To Rewrite Their Teens.