Senseless Violence Is A Prerogative Of Youth,

One Goes On Writing Partly Because It Is The Only Available Way Of Earning A Living. It Is A Hard Way And Highly Competitive. My Heart Drops Into My Bowels When I Enter A Bookshop And See How Fierce The Competition Is...there Is Also A Privier Reason For Pushing On, And That Is The Hopeless Hope That Someday That Intractable Enemy Language Will Yield To The Struggle To Control It... Mastery Never Comes, And One Serves A Lifelong Apprenticeship. The Writer Cannot Retire From The Battle; He Dies Fighting.

The Next Morning I Woke Up At Oh Eight Oh Oh Hours, My Brothers, And As I Still Felt Shagged And Fagged And Fashed And Bashed And My Glazzies Were Stuck Together Real Horrorshow With Sleepglue, I Thought I Would Not Go To School.

The Aura Of The Theocratic Death Penalty For Adultery Still Clings To America, Even Outside New England, And Multiple Divorce, Which Looks To The European Like Serial Polygamy, Is The Moral Solution To The Problem Of The Itch.

Novelists Are Perhaps The Last People In The World To Be Entrusted With Opinions. The Nature Of A Novel Is That It Has No Opinions, Only The Dialectic Of Contrary Views, Some Of Which, All Of Which, May Be Untenable And Even Silly. A Novelist Should Not Be Too Intelligent Either, Although He May Be Permitted To Be An Intellectual.

There Was Me, That Is Alex, And My Three Droogs, That Is Pete, Georgie And Dim, Dim Being Really Dim, And We Sat In The Korova Milkbar Making Up Our Rassoodocks What To Do With The Evening.