Every Present Anger Derives From Past Weakness.

Pain Is Beyond Reason, An Obliterating Giant Stupidity To Which All Your History Of Jokes And Nuance And Ideas And Caresses Is Nothing, Simply Nothing.

If Im Going To Invest The Time In A Novel, I Want Something More Than The Entertainment You Get Out Of Most Genre Fiction.

Bliss Defies Description, Obviously, Since It Annihilates You, Since You're Not There To Experience It. You Get The Lead-up And The Come-down, Never The Zenith.

You Can't Blame Me. I Mean That Literally. You're Incapable Of Blaming Me. You're Human. Being Human Is Choosing Freedom Over Imprisonment, Autonomy Over Dependency, Liberty Over Servitude. You Can't Blame Me Because You Know (come On, Man, You've Always Known) That The Idea Of Spending Eternity With Nothing To Do Except Praise God Is Utterly Unappealing. You'd Be Catatonic After An Hour. Heaven's A Swiz Because To Get In You Have To Leave Yourself Outside. You Can't Blame Me Because -- Now Do Please Be Honest With Yourself For Once -- You'd Have Left, Too.

Literature Is Humanity's Broad-minded Alter-ego, With Room In Its Heart For Monsters, Even For You. It's Humanity Without The Judgement.