We Have Had, Alas, And Still Have,

Dedication To One's Work In The World Is The Only Possible Sanctifica-tion. Religion In All Its Forms Is Dedication To Someone Else's Work, Not Yours.

I'm Not Afraid Of Facts, I Welcome Facts But A Congeries Of Facts Is Not Equivalent To An Idea. This Is The Essential Fallacy Of The So-called "scientific" Mind. People Who Mistake Facts For Ideas Are Incomplete Thinkers; They Are Gossips.

The Usefulness Of Madmen Is Famous: They Demonstrate Society's Logic Flagrantly Carried Out Down To Its Last Scrimshaw Scrap.

The Power Of Language, It Seems To Me, Is The Only Kind Of Power A Writer Is Entitled To.

What's Impossible Not To Notice, Though - It's All Around Us - Is The Diminution Of American Prose: How Pedestrian It Has Become. Pick Up Any Short Story And Listen To Its Voice, The Tedious Easy Vernacular That Mistakes Transcription For Realism. This Would Display An Understandable Pragmatism If It Were A Pandering To Common-denominator Readers; But It Is, In Fact, A Kind Of Hifalultin Literary Ideology, The Less-is-more Hemingway Legacy Put Through An Up-to-the-minute Industrial Blender.