There Is Still That Singular Perfection, And

There Is Still That Singular Perfection, And It's Perfect In Part Because It Seemed, At The Time, So Clearly To Promise More.

She Will Remain Sane And She Will Live As She Was Meant To Live, Richly And Deeply, Among Others Of Her Kind, In Full Possession And Command Of Her Gifts.

Silly Humans. Banging On A Tub To Make A Bear Dance When We Would Move The Stars To Pity.

There's The Fact That American Fiction Is Basically The Most Apolitical Fiction On The Globe. A South American Writer Wouldn't Dare Think Of Writing A Novel If It Didn't Allude To The System Into Which These People Are Orchestrated - Or An Eastern European Writer, Or A Russian Writer, Or A Chinese Writer. Only American Writers Are Able To Imagine That The Government And The Corporations - All Of It - Seem To Have No Effect Whatsoever.

At The Risk, Then, Of Being Shunned By Some Of My Gloomier Peers, I Venture To Tell You That Writers Work Like Demons, Suffer Greatly, And Are Also Happy, In Unmistakable Ways, Some Of The Time. If We Had No Knowledge Of Happiness, Our Novels Wouldn't Sufficiently Resemble Real Life. Some Of Us Are Even Made A Little Bit Happy, On Occasion, By The Writing Process Itself. I Mean, Really, If There Wasn't Some Sort Of Enjoyment To Be Derived, Would Any Of Us Keep Doing It?