The Writer Has A Grudge Against Society,

My Capacity For Having A Good Time Exists. It Surfaces, However, On Odd Occasions.

In Almost Every Thriller, A Point Is Reached When Someone, Usually Calling From A Phone Booth, Telephones With A Vital Piece Of Information, Which He Cannot Divulge By Phone. By The Time The Hero Arrives At The Place Where They Had Arranged To Meet, The Caller Is Dead, Or Too Near Death To Tell. There Is Never An Explanation For The Reluctance Of The Caller To Impart His Message In The First Place.

And Then There Were The Wallflowers Who Had Recognized For Years That The Thing Was Hopeless, Who Had Found In That Information A Kind Of Calm. They No Longer Tried, With A Bright And Desperate Effort, To Sustain A Conversation With Somebody's Brother, Somebody's Usher, Somebody's Roommate, Somebody's Roommate's Usher's Brother... The Category Of Wallflower Who Had Given Up On All This Was Very Quiet, Not Indifferent, Only Quiet. And She Always Brought A Book.

Nice Criticism Is Good When It Tells You Something. A Lot Of Negative "criticism" Isn't Criticism At All: It's Just Nasty, "writerly" Cliché And Invective.

If You Once Cede To The Court The Power To Decide Elections, Let Alone Even The Power To Halt Counting Of The Votes, Then You Have Ceded It Everything.