All Pasts Are Like Poems; One Can

The World Began In Hazard And Will End In It.

The Battle Was Over. Our Casualties Were Some Thirteen Thousand Killed--thirteen Thousand Minds, Memories, Loves, Sensations, Worlds, Universes--because The Human Mind Is More A Universe Than The Universe Itself--and All For A Few Hundred Yards Of Useless Mud.

I Suppose I'd Had, By The Standards Of That Pre-permissive Time, A Good Deal Of Sex For My Age. Girls, Or A Certain Kind Of Girl, Liked Me; I Had A Car-not So Common Among Undergraduates In Those Days-and I Had Some Money. I Wasn't Ugly; And Even More Important, I Had My Loneliness, Which, As Every Cad Knows, Is A Deadly Weapon With Women. My 'technique' Was To Make A Show Of Unpredictability, Cynicism, And Indifference. Then, Like A Conjurer With His White Rabbit, I Produced The Solitary Heart.

I Will Tell You What War Is. War Is A Psychosis Caused By An Inability To See Relationships. Our Relationship With Our Fellowmen. Our Relationship With Our Economic And Historical Situation. And Above All Our Relationship To Nothingness, To Death.

The Best Wines Take The Longest To Mature.