Madness Is A Kind Of Mental Suicide.

City Life Is No Life For A Country Man; For Such A Man That Life Is A Kind Of Damnation In Itself.

Lightning Flashed Dully Inside The Clouds On The Horizon Making Them Look As If They Had Fireflies Of Their Own, Monster Fireflies The Size Of Dinosaurs.

When Facts Speak, The Wise Man Listens.

These Self-appointed Deacons In The Church Of Latter-day American Literature Seem To Regard Generosity (of Words) With Suspicion, Texture With Dislike, And Any Broad Literary Stroke With Outright Hate. The Result Is A Strange And Arid Literary Climate Where A Meaningless Little Fingernail Paring Like Nicholson Baker's Vox Becomes An Object Of Fascinated Debate And Dissection, And A Truly Ambitious American Novel Like Matthew's Heart Of The Country Is All But Ignored.

Symbolism Exists To Adorn And Enrich, Not To Create An Artificial Sense Of Profundity.