From 1968 On, I Was Pretty Much

A Number Of Things In Dhalgren Are Just Meant To Function As Mysteries. They're Mysteries When The Book Begins, And They're Mysteries When The Book Ends.

The Strange Machinery By Which A Reputation Precedes Its Source We All Know Is Faulty. Yet How Much Faith We Put In It!

Reality Must Prove Itself Again And Again To Questioners ... It Is The Fantasy Which Goes On Without Contradiction, Without Having To Prove Itself.

Apocalypse Has Come And Gone. We're Just Grubbing In The Ashes.

It Is Not That Love Sometimes Makes Mistakes, But That It Is, Essentially, A Mistake. We Fall In Love When Our Imagination Projects Nonexistent Perfections On To Another Person. One Day The Phantasmagoria Vanishes, And With It Love Dies.