I Am Alone Here In New York,

The Great Is Seldom A Deterrent To The Mediocre

It Is June. This Is What I Have Decided To Do With My Life Just Now. I Will Do This Work And Lead This Life, The One I Am Leading Today. Each Morning The Blue Clock And The Crocheted Bedspread, The Table With The Phone, The Books And Magazines, The Times At The Door.

Gertrude Stein, All Courage And Will, Is A Soldier Of Minimalism. Her Work, Unlike The Resonating Silences In The Art Of Samuel Beckett, Embodies In Its Loquacity And Verbosity The Curious Paradox Of The Minimalist Form. This Art Of The Nuance In Repetition And Placement She Shares With The Orchestral Compositions Of Philip Glass.

Sex Can No Longer Be The Germ, The Seed Of Fiction. Sex Is An Episode, Most Properly Conveyed In An Episodic Manner, Quickly, Often Ironically. It Is A Bursting Forth Of Only One Of The Cells In The Body Of The Omnipotent I, The One Who Hopes By Concentration Of Tone And Voice To Utter The Sound Of Reality.

Here In The City The Worst Thing That Can Happen To A Nation Has Happened: We Are A People Afraid Of Its Youth.