Dear Fran, i've given a fair amount of thought to whether there's more in the novel which might fit the the general milleu here.  I can't tell.  Some is way too personal, way too childishly literary, or way too drunken to be shared at this time.  Some parts i'm very proud of, at least thinking some fine writing is there.  It's a chronicle of the writer, calling himself the Global Village Idiot, pulling out of a very dark time, with a brand new reaffirmation of life.

There may well be some segments that fit here, so i'll give a look and see what i come up with, if anything.

Here's something i was thinking about when i began the experiement:

    Side by side with the human race there runs another race of beings, the inhuman ones, the race of artists who, goaded by unknown impulses, take the lifeless mass of humanity and by the fever and ferment with which they imbue it turn this soggy dough into bread and the bread into wine and the wine into song... I see this other race of individuals ransacking the universe, turning everything upside down... A man who belongs to this race must stand up on the high place with gibberish in his mouth and rip out his entrails.
    Henry Miller, the Air-Conditioned Nightmare

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." - Anaïs Nin