The Death Of God Left The Angels

The World Is Sagging, Snagging, Scaling, Spalling, Pilling, Pinging, Pitting, Warping, Checking, Fading, Chipping, Cracking, Yellowing, Leaking, Stalling, Shrinking, And In Dynamic Unbalance.

Take Me Home," Snow White Said. "take Me Home Instantly. If There Is Anything Worse Than Being Home, It Is Being Out.

The Writer Is One Who, Embarking Upon A Task, Does Not Know What To Do... Writing Is A Process Of Dealing With Not-knowing, A Forcing Of What And How.

Some People', Miss R. Said,'run To Conceits Or Wisdom But I Hold To The Hard, Brown, Nutlike Word. I Might Point Out That There Is Enough Aesthetic Excitement Here To Satisfy Anyone But A Damned Fool.

We Like Books That Have A Lot Of Dreck In Them, Matter Which Presents Itself As Not Wholly Relevant (or Indeed, At All Relevant) But Which, Carefully Attended To, Can Supply A Kind Of "sense" Of What Is Going On. This "sense" Is Not To Be Obtained By Reading Between The Lines (for There Is Nothing There, In Those White Spaces) But By Reading The Lines Themselves Looking At Them And So Arriving At A Feeling Not Of Satisfaction Exactly, That Is Too Much To Expect, But Of Having Read Them, Of Having "completed" Them.