When All Of Us Are

Unless Criticism Refuses To Take Itself Quite So Seriously Or At Least To Permit Its Readers Not To, It Will Inevitably Continue To Reflect The Finicky Canons Of The Genteel Tradition And The Depressing Pieties Of The Culture Religion Of Modernism.

Foucault Was The One Person I Met In France That I Could Talk To. He Was A Mensch. You Know Whether You Agree With Him Or Not Because You Know What He Is Saying.

I Gave Up Writing Blurbs Because You Make One Friend And 200 Enemies.

I Have, I Admit, A Low Tolerance For Detached Chronicling And Cool Analysis.

Faulkner Sat In Our Living Room And Read From Light In August. That Was Incredible.