Any Genuine Work Of Art Generates New

Endings Are Elusive, Middles Are Nowhere To Be Found, But Worst Of All Is To Begin, To Begin, To Begin.

The Death Of God Left The Angels In A Strange Position.

The Aim Of Literature ... Is The Creation Of A Strange Object Covered With Fur Which Breaks Your Heart.

The Privileged Classes Can Afford Psychoanalysis And Whiskey. Whereas All We Get Is Sermons And Sour Wine. This Is Manifestly Unfair. I Protest, Silently.

Well Chaps First I'd Like To Say A Few Vile Things More Or Less At Random, Not Only Because It Is Expected Of Me But Also Because I Enjoy It.