... And Because It Was A Drunken

There Was Something Unmistakably Exultant About The Mess That Rosa Had Made. Her Bedroom-studio Was At Once The Canvas, Journal, Museum, And Midden Of Her Life. She Did Not “decorate” It; She Infused It.

There's Nothing More Embarrassing Than To Have Earned The Disfavor Of A Perceptive Animal.

There Was A Sort Of Irony In The Fact That These [superhero] Characters - Many Of Whom In That Period, The Golden Age, Had Been Evolved To Fight The Nazis - Were Themselves Very Much In The Nazi Ideal. The Idea That You Can Solve Problems Through Physical Strength, By Being Stronger And More Dominant And More Powerful - That Is Fascism. I Mean, That's It, That's The Essence Of Fascism. I Don't Think The Creators Of The Superheroes Or The Kids Who Were Reading Them At The Time Were The Slightest Bit Aware Of It.

One Knew, Of Course, That It Was Not The Red Cape Any More Than It Was The Boots, The Tights, The Trunks, Or The Trademark "s" That Gave Superman The Ability To Fly. That Ability Derived From The Effects Of The Rays Of Our Yellow Sun On Superman's Alien Anatomy, Which Had Evolved Under The Red Sun Of Krypton. And Yet You Had Only To Tie A Towel Around Your Shoulders To Feel The Strange Vibratory Pulse Of Flight Stirring In The Red Sun Of Your Heart.

Every Day Is Like A Kid's Drawing, Offered To You With A Strange Mix Of Ceremoniousness And Offhand Disregard, Yours For The Keeping. Some Of The Days Are Rich And Complicated, Others Inscrutable, Others Little More Than A Stray Gray Mark On A Ragged Page. Some You Manage To Hang On To, Though Your Reasons For Doing So Are Often Hard To Fathom. But Most Of Them You Just Ball Up And Throw Away.