The Trick Is Not Becoming A Writer.

People On The Outside Think There's Something Magical About Writing, That You Go Up In The Attic At Midnight And Cast The Bones And Come Down In The Morning With A Story, But It Isn't Like That. You Sit In Back Of The Typewriter And You Work, And That's All There Is To It.

And We Passed Through The Cavern Of Rats. And We Passed Through The Path Of Boiling Steam. And We Passed Through The Country Of The Blind. And We Passed Through The Slough Of Despond. And We Passed Through The Vale Of Tears. And We Came, Finally, To The Ice Caverns.

I Think Love And Sex Are Separate And Only Vaguely Similar. Like The Word Bear And The Word Bare. You Can Get In Trouble Mistaking One For The Other.

People Don't Die From The Old Diseases Any More. They Die From New Ones, But That's Progress, Isn't It? Isn't It?

Perfection. Excellence. What A Passionate Lover. But Once Having Tasted The Lips Of Excellence, Once Having Given Oneself To Its Perfection, How Dreary And Burdensome And Filled With Anomie Are The Remainder Of One's Waking Hours Trapped In The Shackled Lock-step Of The Merely Ordinary, The Barely Acceptable, The Just Okay And Not A Stroke Better.