I imagine most of that stuff on the information highway is roadkill anyway.

The difficulty is, all swing thoughts decay, like radium. What burnt up the course on Wednesday has turned to lead on Sunday. Yet it does not do to have a blank mind: the terrible hugeness of the course will rush into the vacuum and the ball will spray like a thing berserk.

Narrative and metaphysics alike become flimsy and frivolous if they venture too far from the home base of all humanism - the single, simple human life that we all more or less lead, with its crude elementals of nurture and appetite, love and competition, the sunshine of well-being and the inevitable night of death. We each live this tale. Fiction has no reason to be embarrassed about telling the same story again and again, since we all, with infinite variations, experience the same story.

Natural beauty is essentially temporary and sad, hence the impression of obscene mockery which artificial flowers give us.

The inner spaces that a good story lets us enter are the old apartments of religion.

I imagine most of that stuff on the information highway is roadkill anyway.

I want to write books that unlock the traffic jam in everybody's head.