Getting Even Is One Reason For Writing.

It Is Discouraging To Leave The Past Behind Only To See It Coming Toward You Like The Thunderstorm Which Drenched You Yesterday.

The Death Of God Represents Not Only The Realization That Gods Have Never Existed, But The Contention That Such A Belief Is No Longer Even Irrationally Possible: That Neither Reason Nor The Taste And Temper Of The Times Condones It. The Belief Lingers On, Of Course, But It Does So Like Astrology Or A Faith In A Flat Earth.

If You Were A Fully Realized Person-whatever The Hell That Would Be-you Wouldn't Fool Around Writing Books.

What Else Is Soul But A Listener?

The Speeding Reader Guts A Book The Way The Skillful Clean Fish. The Gills Are Gone, The Tail, The Scales, The Fins; Then The Fillet Slides Away Swifly As Though Fed To A Seal.