Without the sun, the world would die of cold, without stories, of boredom.

Poetry — word concentrate.

Words can zoom and zoar and zive, fly upside down and come alive.

A canon, some dogma, a couple of martyrs and a few prophets and literature is a  religion.

Words heal the brain; sentences heal the soul; books heal the world.

Literature and history share this, a passion to distort what happened.

Literature is the refrigerator that preserves tommorrow’s word entree.

As the artist knifes paint on canvases so the writer spatulas words onto minds.

Modern certainty about uncertainty is uncertain of uncertainty.

It only takes a lull to trepanate a skull.

Literature is culinary art with a slice of propaganda thrown in.

One of the primary functions of literature is to entertain; what doesn’t delight doesn’t sell.

Every story ever written is every person’s story who has ever lived.

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