Repent, Harlequin," Said The Ticktock Man. "get

That's Probably One Of My Biggest Gripes With The Internet - That It Settles For Mediocrity And Disinformation, Which Puts All Information On The Same Level. Everything Has The Same Value, Whether It's Albert Einstein Speaking, Or Yoohoo27@msn.com.

It Is Not Merely Enough To Love Literature If One Wishes To Spend One's Life As A Writer. It Is A Dangerous Undertaking On The Most Primitive Level. For, It Seems To Me, The Act Of Writing With Serious Intent Involves Enormous Personal Risk. It Entails The Ongoing Courage For Self-discovery. It Means One Will Walk Forever On The Tightrope, With Each New Step Presenting The Possiblity Of Learning A Truth About Oneself That Is Too Terrible To Bear.

What I Try To Write About Are The Darkest Things In The Soul, The Mortal Dreads... The Closer I Get To The Burning Core Of My Being, The Things Which Are Most Painful To Me, The Better Is My Work.

Like A Wind Crying Endlessly Through The Universe, Time Carries Away The Names And The Deeds Of Conquerors And Commoners Alike. And All That We Were, All That Remains, Is In The Memories Of Those Who Cared We Came This Way For A Brief Moment.

Because The Chief Commodity A Writer Has To Sell Is His Courage. And If He Has None, He Is More Than A Coward. He Is A Sellout And A Fink And A Heretic, Because Writing Is A Holy Chore.