I Cannot Believe Such Monstrous Energy Of

The True Artist Plays Mad With His Soul, Labors At The Very Lip Of The Volcano, But Remembers And Clings To His Purpose, Which Is As Strong As The Dream. He Is Not Someone Possessed, Like Cassandra, But A Passionate, Easily Tempted Explorer Who Fully Intends To Get Home Again, Like Odysseus.

One Must Be Just A Little Crazy To Write A Great Novel. One Must Be Capable Of Allowing The Darkest, Most Ancient And Shrewd Parts Of One’s Being To Take Over The Work From Time To Time.

The Primary Subject Of Fiction Is And Has Always Been Human Emotion, Values, And Beliefs.

I Understand That The World Was Nothing: A Mechanical Chaos Of Casual, Brute Enmity On Which We Stupidly Impose Our Hopes And Fears. I Understood That, Finally And Absolutely, I Alone Exist. All The Rest, I Saw, Is Merely What Pushes Me, Or What I Push Against, Blindly - As Blindly As All That Is Not Myself Pushes Back. I Create The Whole Universe, Blink By Blink.

We Read Five Words On The First Page Of A Really Good Novel And We Begin To Forget That We Are Reading Printed Words On A Page; We Begin To See Images.