The Suburbs Dream Of Violence.

I Feel That, In A Sense, The Writer Knows Nothing Any Longer. He Has No Moral Stance. He Offers The Reader The Contents Of His Own Head, A Set Of Options And Imaginative Alternatives. His Role Is That Of A Scientist, Whether On Safari Or In His Laboratory, Faced With An Unknown Terrain Or Subject. All He Can Do Is To Devise Various Hypotheses And Test Them Against The Facts.

God Was A Clever Idea ... The Human Race Came Up With A Winner There.

Everything Is Becoming Science Fiction. From The Margins Of An Almost Invisible Literature Has Sprung The Intact Reality Of The 20th Century.

Hell Is Out Of Fashion --institutional Hells At Any Rate. The Populated Infernos Of The 20th Century Are More Private Affairs, The Gaps Between The Bars Are The Sutures Of One's Own Skull. . .

Deserts Possess A Particular Magic, Since They Have Exhausted Their Own Futures, And Are Thus Free Of Time. Anything Erected There, A City, A Pyramid, A Motel, Stands Outside Time. It's No Coincidence That Religious Leaders Emerge From The Desert. Modern Shopping Malls Have Much The Same Function. A Future Rimbaud, Van Gogh Or Adolf Hitler Will Emerge From Their Timeless Wastes.