Awe Consumes Any Brand That Ignites It.

We Were Born To Die; We Were Born To Endure, On The Way To Death, Sorrow-sorrow In Manifold Shapes.

Wars, Invented And Organized By The Highest Available Consciousnesses (do The Worms Go To War? Do The Fish? Do The Paramecia?), Are The Planet's Chief Source And Cause Of Torment.

I Think About Fanaticism - Oblivion Awaits, Especially For Minor Writers, So You Have To Be A Fanatic; You Have To Be A Crank To Keep Going, But On The Other Hand, What Else Would You Do With The Rest Of Your Life? You Gotta Do Something.

Nothing Is So Awesomely Unfamiliar As The Familiar That Discloses Itself At The End Of A Journey. Nothing Shakes The Heart So Much As Meeting-far, Far Away-what You Last Met At Home.

What's Impossible Not To Notice, Though - It's All Around Us - Is The Diminution Of American Prose: How Pedestrian It Has Become. Pick Up Any Short Story And Listen To Its Voice, The Tedious Easy Vernacular That Mistakes Transcription For Realism. This Would Display An Understandable Pragmatism If It Were A Pandering To Common-denominator Readers; But It Is, In Fact, A Kind Of Hifalultin Literary Ideology, The Less-is-more Hemingway Legacy Put Through An Up-to-the-minute Industrial Blender.