He Was Of The Faith

When I Find Someone I Respect Writing About An Edgy, Nervous Wine That Dithered In The Glass, I Cringe. When I Hear Someone I Don't Respect Talking About An Austere, Unforgiving Wine, I Turn A Bit Austere And Unforgiving Myself. When I Come Across Stuff Like That And Remember About The Figs And Bananas, I Want To Snigger Uneasily. You Can Call A Wine Red, And Dry, And Strong, And Pleasant. After That, Watch Out.

When That Ineffable Compound Of Depression, Sadness (these Two Are Not The Same), Anxiety, Self-hatred, Sense Of Failure And Fear For The Future Begins To Steal Over You, Start Telling Yourself That What You Have Is A Hangover. You Are Not Sickening For Anything, You Have Not Suffered A Minor Brain Lesion, You Are Not All That Bad At Your Job, Your Family And Friends Are Not Leagued In A Conspiracy Of Barely Maintained Silence About What A S**t You Are, You Have Not Come At Last To See Life As It Really Is And There Is No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk.

With Some Exceptions In Science Fiction And Other Genres I Have Small Difficulty In Avoiding Anything That Could Be Called American Literature. I Feel It Is Unnatural, Not I Think Entirely Because It Uses A Language That Is Not Mine, However Closely Akin To My Own.

To Refer Even In Passing To Unpublished Or Struggling Authors And Their Problems Is To Put Oneself At Some Risk, So I Will Say Here And Now That Any Unsolicited Manuscripts Or Typescripts Sent To Me Will Be Destroyed Unread. You Must Make Your Way Yourself. Why You Should Be So Set On The Nearly Always Disappointing Profession Is A Puzzling Question.

He Who Truly Believes He Has A Hangover Has No Hangover.