Careful What You Hunt, Lest You Catch

That’s What Death Did, It Treated You Like A Child, Like Everything You Had Ever Thought And Done And Cared About Was Just A Child’s Game, To Be Crumpled Up And Thrown Away When It Was Over. It Didn’t Matter. Death Didn’t Respect You. Death Thought You Were Bullshit, And It Wanted To Make Sure You Knew It.

You Don't Want To Move Toward Some Utopian Literary Situation Where Everybody's Free Of All Conventions. That's Ridiculous! Conventions Are What You Need. You Have Nothing To Break Down If You Don't Have Conventions.

When The Oldest Chatwin, Melancholy Martin, Opens The Cabinet Of The Grandfather Clock That Stands In A Dark, Narrow Back Hallway In His Aunt’s House And Slip Through Into Fillory...it’s Like He’s Opening The Covers Of A Book, But A Book That Did What Books Always Promised To Do And Never Ac Tually Quite Did: Get You Out, Really Out, Of Where You Were And Into Something Better.

By Now He Had Learned Enough To Know That When He Was Getting Annoyed At Somebody Else, It Was Usually Because There Was Something That He Himself Should Be Doing, And He Wasn't Doing It.

How Often Have I Met And Disliked Writers Whose Books I Love; And Conversely, Hated The Books And Then Wound Up Liking The Writer? Too Often.