Yet Everyone Begins In The Same Place;

To Turn Experience Into Speech - That Is, To Classify, To Categorize, To Conceptualize, To Grammarize, To Syntactify It - Is Always A Betrayal Of Experience, A Falsification Of It; But Only So Betrayed Can It Be Dealt With At All, And Only In So Dealing With It Did I Ever Feel A Man, Alive And Kicking.

You Don't Reach Serendib By Plotting A Course For It. You Have To Set Out In Good Faith For Elsewhere And Lose Your Bearings... Serendipitously.

The Genie Declared That In His Time And Place There Were Scientists Of The Passions Who Maintained That Language Itself, On The One Hand, Originated In 'infantile Pregenital Erotic Exuberance, Polymorphously Perverse,' And That Conscious Attention, On The Other, Was A 'libidinal Hypercathexis' - By Which Magic Phrases They Seemed To Mean That Writing And Reading, Or Telling And Listening, Were Literally Ways Of Making Love.

Somewhere In The World There Was A Young Woman With Such Splendid Understanding That She'd See Him Entire, Like A Poem Or Story, And Find His Words So Valuable After All That When He Confessed His Apprehensions She Would Explain Why They Were In Fact The Very Things That Made Him Precious To Her...and To Western Civilization! There Was No Such Girl, The Simple Truth Being.

If You Are A Novelist Of A Certain Type Of Termperament, Then What You Really Want To Do Is Re-invent The World. God Wasn't Too Bad A Novelist Except He Was A Realist.