We Are Only Midway Through The Central

Words Bounce. Words, If You Let Them, Will Do What They Want To Do And What They Have To Do.

Time Isn't Made Of Anything. It Is An Abstraction. Just A Meaning That We Impose Upon Motion.

Novels Institutionalize The Ruse Of Eros. It Becomes A Narrative Texture Of Sustained Incongruence, Emotional And Cognitive. It Permits The Reader To Stand In Triangular Relation To The Characters In The Story And Reach Into The Text After The Objects Of Their Desire, Sharing Their Longing But Also Detached From It, Seeing Their View Of Reality But Also Its Mistakenness. It Is Almost Like Being In Love.

As Sokrates Tells It, Your Story Begins The Moment Eros Enters You. That Incursion Is The Biggest Risk Of Your Life. How You Handle It Is An Index Of The Quality, Wisdom, And Decorum Of The Things Inside You. As You Handle It You Come Into Contact With What Is Inside You, In A Sudden And Startling Way. You Perceive What You Are, What You Lack, What You Could Be.

He Was Trying To Fit This Herakles Onto The One He Knew.