With both agents and publishers hungry for bestsellers, literature will have to end up as a cottage industry.

It is as inhuman to be totally good as it is to be totally evil.

Any book has behind it all the other books that have been written.

As we grow older, the memories of early life brighten, those of maturity and senescence grow dim and confused.

The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and behind my gulliver the trumpets three-wise silverflamed, and there by the door the timps rolling through my guts and out again crunched like candy thunder. Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then, a bird of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now, came the violin solo above all the other strings, and those strings were like a cage of silk around my bed. Then flute and oboe bored, like worms of like platinum, into the thick thick toffee gold and silver. I was in such bliss, my brothers.

But, brothers, this biting of their toe-nails over what is the CAUSE of badness is what turns me into a fine laughing malchick. They don't go into what is the cause of GOODNESS, so why of the other shop?

How wicked, my brothers, innocent milk must always seem to me now.