By The End Of The 1980s, Seattle

I Loved The Audacity Of That American Principle Which Says. When Life Gets Tainted Or Goes Stale, Junk It! Leave It Behind! Go West!

Critics? Don't Talk To Me Of Critics! You Think Some Jackanapes Journalist, His Soul Eaten Away By The Maggots Of Jealousy And Failure, Has Anything Worthwhile To Say Of Art? I Don't.

Insofar As I Think About Postmodernism At All, And It Doesn't Exactly Keep Me Awake At Nights, I Think Of It As Something That Happens To One, Not A Style One Affects. We're Postmoderns Because We're Not Modernists. The Modernist Writers—pound, Eliot, Joyce, Stevens, Yeats, Woolf, Williams—spoke With A Kind Of Vatic Authority: They Were Really The Last Of The Romantics, For Whom Authorship Itself Was Like Being A Solitary Prophet In The Wasteland.

Because Washington State Now Votes By Mail, Elections Here Tend To Play Out, At An Agonizingly Slow Speed, Over Many Days And, Sometimes, Weeks.

Trouble Defies The Law Of Gravity. It's Easier To Pick Up Than To Drop.