How some of the writers I come across get through their books without dying of boredom is beyond me.

We're comic. We're all comics. We live in a comic time. And the worse it gets the more comic we are.

What is it they want from the man that they didn't get from the work? What do they expect? What is there left when he's done with his work, what's any artist but the dregs of his work, the human shambles that follows it around?

He was the only person caught in the collapse, and afterward, most of his work was recovered too, and it is still spoken of, when it is noted, with high regard, though seldom played.