A Ton Of Proust Isn’t Worth An

Deserts Possess A Particular Magic, Since They Have Exhausted Their Own Futures, And Are Thus Free Of Time. Anything Erected There, A City, A Pyramid, A Motel, Stands Outside Time. It's No Coincidence That Religious Leaders Emerge From The Desert. Modern Shopping Malls Have Much The Same Function. A Future Rimbaud, Van Gogh Or Adolf Hitler Will Emerge From Their Timeless Wastes.

The History Of Psychiatry Rewrites Itself So Often That It Almost Resembles The Self-serving Chronicles Of A Totalitarian And Slightly Paranoid Regime.

Writing A Novel Is One Of Those Modern Rites Of Passage, I Think, That Lead Us From An Innocent World Of Contentment, Drunkenness, And Good Humor, To A State Of Chronic Edginess And The Perpetual Scanning Of Bank Statements.

A Ton Of Proust Isn’t Worth An Ounce Of Ray Bradbury.

During The 1960s, The Shanghai Of My Childhood Seemed A Portent Of The Media Cities Of The Future, Dominated By Advertising And Mass Circulation Newspapers And Swept By Unpredictable Violence.