The Writer Is One Who,

Art Is Not Difficult Because It Wishes To Be Difficult, Rather Because It Wishes To Be Art. However Much The Writer Might Long To Be Straightforward, These Virtues Are No Longer Available To Him. He Discovers That In Being Simple, Honest, Straightforward, Nothing Much Happens.

We Are What We Have Been Told About Ourselves. We Are The Sum Of The Messages We Have Received. The True Messages. The False Messages.

Endings Are Elusive, Middles Are Nowhere To Be Found, But Worst Of All Is To Begin, To Begin, To Begin.

As Jules Renard Said, No Matter How Much Care An Author Takes To Write As Few Books As Possible, There Will Be People Who Haven't Heard Of Some Of Them.

The Death Of God Left The Angels In A Strange Position. They Were Overtaken Suddenly By A Fundamental Question. One Can Attempt To Imagine The Moment. How Did They Look At The Instant The Question Invaded Them, Flooding The Angelic Consciousness, Taking Hold With Terrifying Force? The Question Was, "what Are Angels?" New To Questioning, Unaccustomed To Terror, Unskilled In Aloneness, The Angels (we Assume) Fell Into Despair.