Horror Is Always Aware Of Its Cause;

Bad Writing Is Bad Not Just Because The Language Is Humdrum, But The Quality Of The Observation Is So Poor.

Think Of Two People, Living Together Day After Day, Year After Year, In This Small Space, Standing Elbow To Elbow Cooking At The Same Small Stove, Squeezing Past Each Other On The Narrow Stairs, Shaving In Front Of The Same Small Bathroom Mirror, Constantly Jogging, Jostling, Bumping Against Each Other’s Bodies By Mistake Or On Purpose, Sensually, Aggressively, Awkwardly, Impatiently, In Rage Or In Love – Think What Deep Though Invisible Tracks They Must Leave, Everywhere, Behind Them!

For A Few Minutes, Maybe, Life Lingers In The Tissues Of Some Outlying Regions Of The Body. Then, One By One, The Lights Go Out And There Is Total Blackness. And Ifsome Part Of The Non—entity We Called George Has Indeed Been Absent At This Moment Of Terminal Shock, Away Out There On The Deep Water, Then It Will Return To Find Itself Homeless.

I'm Horrified To Find, As I Look At These Diaries Of Twenty-five Years Ago Or More, That I Don't Remember Who The People Were. "bill And Tony Were Constantly In And Out. We Went To La Jolla" - Or Something. I Haven't The Bluest Idea Who They Were!

But Your Book Is Wrong, Mrs. Strunk, Says George, When It Tells You That Jim Is The Substitute I Found For A Real Son, A Real Kid Brother, A Real Husband, A Real Wife. Jim Wasn't A Substitute For Anything. And There Is No Substitute For Jim, If You'll Forgive My Saying So, Anywhere.