We sail across dominions barely seen, washed by the swells of time. We plow through fields of magnetism. Past and future come together on thunderheads and our dead hearts live with lightning in the wounds of the Gods.

Amateurs... venture into scenes that a writer with more experience (and more professional concern) would bypass or eschew altogether.

The Barry Goldwater movement excited the depths because the apocalypse was brought more near, and like millions of other whites, I had been leading a life which was a trifle too pointless and a trifle too full of guilt and my gullet was close to nausea with the empty promises of an empty liberal center.

America is a hurricane, and the only people who do not hear the sound are those fortunate if incredibly stupid and smug White Protestants who live in the center, in the serene eye of the big wind.

So you come soon to power, but you have merely inherited the crisis and yours is the profit of cancer.

Culture is worth a little risk.

Writer’s block is only a failure of the ego.