You Don't Write A Novel Out Of

Yet Once You've Come To Be Part Of This Particular Patch, You'll Never Love Another. Like Loving A Woman With A Broken Nose, You May Well Find Lovelier Lovelies. But Never A Lovely So Real.

Our Myths Are So Many, Our Vision So Dim, Our Self-deception So Deep And Our Smugness So Gross That Scarcely Any Way Now Remains Of Reporting The American Century Except From Behind The Billboards.

A Book, A True Book, Is The Writer's Confessional. For, Whether He Would Have It So Or Not, He Is Betrayed, Directly Or Indirectly, By His Characters, Into Presenting Publicly His Innermost Feelings.

It Is Strange How Fragile This Man-creature Is.....in One Second He's Just Garbage. Garbage, That's All.

The Impossible Generalized Man Today Is The Critic Who Believes In Loving Those Unworthy Of Love As Well As Those Worthy -yet Believes This Only Insofar As No Personal Risk Is Entailed. Meaning He Loves No One, Worthy Or No. This Is What Makes Him Impossible.