Writers, Unlike Most People, Tell Their Best

Nothing Is Boring Exept To People Who Aren't Really Paying Attention.

Every Generation Loses The Messiah It Has Failed To Deserve.

The Midnight Disease Is A Kind Of Emotional Insomnia; At Ever Conscious Moment Its Victim—even If He Or She Writes At Dawn, Or In The Middle Of The Afternoon—feels Like A Person Lying In A Sweltering Bedroom, With The Window Thrown Open, Looking Up At A Sky Filled With Stars And Airplanes, Listening To The Narrative Of A Rattling Blind, An Ambulance, A Fly Trapped In A Coke Bottle, While All Around Him The Neighbours Soundly Sleep.

It Took Marvel Comics Years To Begin To Put Together Any Worthwhile Superheroines. The First Crop Was, To A Gal, Embarrassingly Disappointing. They Had All The Measly Powers That Fifties And Sixties Male Chauvinism Could Contrive To Bestow On A Superwoman.

And Then The Man Reminded Max, With A Serious But Suave And Practiced Air, That Freedom Was A Debt That Could Be Repaid Only By Purchasing The Freedom Of Others.