I don't try to describe the future. I try to prevent it.
For about 150 days a year in Venice, the sun doesn't show through the mist until noon.
So few want to be rebels anymore. And out of those few, most, like myself, scare easily.
It is a lie to write in such way as to be rewarded by fame offered you by some snobbish quasi-literary groups in the intellectual gazettes.
Everything is generated through your own will power.
Books are flesh-and-blood ideas and cry out, silently, when put to the torch.