Well chaps first I'd like to say a few vile things more or less at random, not only because it is expected of me but also because I enjoy it.

Painters, especially American painters since the Second World War, have been much more troubled, beset by formal perplexity, than American writers. Theyve been a laboratory for everybody.

The privileged classes can afford psychoanalysis and whiskey. Whereas all we get is sermons and sour wine. This is manifestly unfair. I protest, silently.

Capitalism arose and took off its pajamas. Another day, another dollar. Each man is valued at what he will bring in the marketplace. Meaning has been drained from work and assigned instead to remuneration.

And I sat there getting drunker and drunker and more in love and more in love.

Endings are elusive, middles are nowhere to be found, but worst of all is to begin, to begin, to begin.

See the moon? It hates us.