There Is No Limit To Desire But

The True Artist Plays Mad With His Soul, Labors At The Very Lip Of The Volcano, But Remembers And Clings To His Purpose, Which Is As Strong As The Dream. He Is Not Someone Possessed, Like Cassandra, But A Passionate, Easily Tempted Explorer Who Fully Intends To Get Home Again, Like Odysseus.

In University Courses We Do Exercises. Term Papers, Quizzes, Final Examinations Are Not Meant For Publication. We Move Through A Course On Dostoevsky Or Poe As We Move Through A Mildly Good Cocktail Party, Picking Up The Good Bits Of Food Or Conversation, Bearing With The Rest, Going Home When It Comes To Seem The Reasonable Thing To Do. Art, At Those Moments When It Feels Most Like Art -- When We Feel Most Alive, Most Alert, Most Triumphant -- Is Less Like A Cocktail Party Than A Tank Full Of Sharks.

People Will Tell You That Writing Is Too Difficult, That It's Impossible To Get Your Work Published, That You Might As Well Hang Yourself. Meanwhile, They'll Keep Writing And You'll Have Hanged Yourself.

A Common And Usually Unfortunate Answer Is “write About What You Know.” Nothing Can Be More Limiting To The Imagination, Nothing Is Quicker To Turn On The Psyche's Censoring Devices And Distortion Systems, Than Trying To Write Truthfully.

We Know That Where Community Exists In Confers Upon Its Members Identity, A Sense Of Belonging, And A Measure Of Security. . . . Communities Are The Ground-level Generators And Preservers Of Values And Ethical Systems.