But I Think, And Hope, That The

All Of Our Lives Are Governed By A Certain Degree Of Faith In Bullshit.

Words Bend Our Thinking To Infinite Paths Of Self-delusion, And The Fact That We Spend Most Of Our Mental Lives In Brain Mansions Built Of Words Means That We Lack The Objectivity Necessary To See The Terrible Distortion Of Reality Which Language Brings.

Lovemaking Seems All Too Absurd When Described.

There's A Unique Bond Of Trust Between Readers And Authors That I Don't Believe Exists In Any Other Art Form; As A Reader, I Trust A Novelist To Give Me His Or Her Best Effort, However Flawed.

How Could Anyone Stay Sane With Entire Lifetimes Stored In One Human Mind?