This might be one way to start talking about differences between the early postmodern writers of the fifties and sixties and their contemporary descendants.

I tend to think of fiction as being mainly about characters and human beings and inner experience, whereas essays can be much more expository and didactic and more about subjects or ideas.

Perhaps this is what it means to go mad: to be emptied and to be aware of the emptiness.

Molly Notkin often confides on the phone to Joelle van Dyne about the one tormented love of Nokin's life thus far, an erotically circumscribed G.W. Pabst scholar at New York University tortured by the neurotic compulsion that there are only a finite number of erections possible in the world at any one time and that his tumescence means e.g. the detumescence of some perhaps more deserving or tortured Third World sorghum farmer.

Probably the most dangerous thing about college education, at least in my own case, is that it enables my tendency to over-intellectualize stuff, to get lost in abstract arguments inside my head instead of simply paying attention to what's going on right in front of me. TC mark

Worship your body, beauty, and sexual allure and you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you.

Almost anything that you pay close, direct attention to becomes interesting.