Each Man Kills The Thing

The Trombones Crunched Redgold Under My Bed, And Behind My Gulliver The Trumpets Three-wise Silverflamed, And There By The Door The Timps Rolling Through My Guts And Out Again Crunched Like Candy Thunder. Oh, It Was Wonder Of Wonders. And Then, A Bird Of Like Rarest Spun Heavenmetal, Or Like Silvery Wine Flowing In A Spaceship, Gravity All Nonsense Now, Came The Violin Solo Above All The Other Strings, And Those Strings Were Like A Cage Of Silk Around My Bed. Then Flute And Oboe Bored, Like Worms Of Like Platinum, Into The Thick Thick Toffee Gold And Silver. I Was In Such Bliss, My Brothers.

If You Write Fiction You Are, In A Sense, Corrupted. There's A Tremendous Corruptibility For The Fiction Writer Because You're Dealing Mainly With Sex And Violence. These Remain The Basic Themes, They're The Basic Themes Of Shakespeare Whether You Like It Or Not.

Suddenly, I Viddied What I Had To Do, And What I Had Wanted To Do, And That Was To Do Myself In; To Snuff It, To Blast Off For Ever Out Of This Wicked, Cruel World. One Moment Of Pain Perhaps And, Then, Sleep Forever, And Ever And Ever.

It Had Been A Wonderful Evening And What I Needed Now, To Give It The Perfect Ending, Was A Little Of The Ludwig Van.

Novelists Are Perhaps The Last People In The World To Be Entrusted With Opinions. The Nature Of A Novel Is That It Has No Opinions, Only The Dialectic Of Contrary Views, Some Of Which, All Of Which, May Be Untenable And Even Silly. A Novelist Should Not Be Too Intelligent Either, Although He May Be Permitted To Be An Intellectual.