The Death Of God Represents Not Only

The Expression To Write Something Down Suggests A Descent Of Thought To The Fingers Whose Movements Immediately Falsify It.

I Publish A Piece In Order To Kill It, So That I Won't Have To Fool Around With It Any Longer.

It’s Not The Word Made Flesh We Want In Writing, In Poetry And Fiction, But The Flesh Made Word

The Body Of Our Saviour Shat But Our Saviour Shat Not.

We Must Take Our Sentences Seriously, Which Means We Must Understand Them Philosophically, And The Odd Thing Is That The Few Who Do, Who Take Them With Utter Sober Seriousness, The Utter Sober Seriousness Of Right-wing Parsons And Political Saviors, The Owners Of Pomeranians, Are The Liars Who Want To Be Believed, The Novelists And Poets, Who Know That The Creatures They Imagine Have No Other Being Than The Sounding Syllables Which The Reader Will Speak Into His Own Weary And Distracted Head. There Are No Magic Words. To Say The Words Is Magical Enough.