The General Public Is A Statistical Fiction

I Suspect Most Of Life Takes Place In The Interstices Of What's Already Been Articulated.

A Number Of Things In Dhalgren Are Just Meant To Function As Mysteries. They're Mysteries When The Book Begins, And They're Mysteries When The Book Ends.

Like Contemporary Poetry, Philosophy Is One Of Those Things, Especially At The Beginning Stages, Most People Would Rather Do Than Study - Which Is Why Most Of What Gets Done Is So Impoverished.

There Is No Articulate Resonance. The Common Problem, I Suppose, Is To Have More To Say Than Vocabulary And Syntax Can Bear. That Is Why I Am Hunting In These Desiccated Streets. The Smoke Hides The Sky's Variety, Stains Consciousness, Covers The Holocaust With Something Safe And Insubstantial. It Protects From Greater Flame. It Indicates Fire, But Obscures The Source. This Is Not A Useful City. Very Little Here Approaches Any Eidolon Of The Beautiful.

There Is A Hollow, Holey Cylinder Running From Hilt To Point In My Machete. When I Blow Across The Mouthpiece In The Handle, I Make Music With My Blade. When All The Holes Are Covered, The Sound Is Sad, As Rough As Rough Can Be And Be Called Smooth. When All The Holes Are Open, The Sound Pipes About, Bringing To The Eye Flakes Of Sun On Water, Crushed Metal. There Are Twenty Holes. And Since I've Been Playing Music, I've Been Called All Different Kinds Of Fool - More Times Than Lobey, Which Is My Name.