Could She *be* Anymore Out Of My

The Impulse To Perfection Cannot Exist Where The Definition Of Perfection Is The Arbitrary Decision Of Authority. That Which Is Born In Loneliness And From The Heart Cannot Be Defended Against The Judgment Of A Committee Of Sycophants. The Volatile Essences Which Make Literature Cannot Survive The Clichés Of A Long Series Of Story Conferences.

Such Is The Brutalization Of Commercial Ethics In This Country That No One Can Feel Anything More Delicate Than The Velvet Touch Of A Soft Buck.

At Least Half The Mystery Novels Published Violate The Law That The Solution, Once Revealed, Must Seem To Be Inevitable.

Real Cities Have Something Else, Some Individual Bony Structure Under The Muck. Los Angeles Has Hollywood -- And Hates It. It Ought To Consider Itself Damn Lucky. Without Hollywood It Would Be A Mail Order City. Everything In The Catalogue You Could Get Better Somewhere Else.

It Seemed Like A Nice Neighborhood To Have Bad Habits In.