I suppose I'm not a truly dedicated artist, whatever that is, and I don't want to be. I'll probably never produce a masterpiece, but so what? I feel I have a Sound aborning, which is my own, and that Sound if erratic is still my greatest pride, because I would rather write like a dancer shaking my ass to boogaloo inside my head, and perhaps reach only readers who like to use books to shake their asses, than to be or write for the man cloistered in a closet somewhere reading Aeschylus while this stupefying world careens crazily past his waxy windows towards its last raving sooty feedback pirouette.
Bless you, Lester, you sweet, wonderful, dead, dancing dirtball.
Jim Out.
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