But Seriously, I Believe I'm A Sort

Staring And Staring Into The Mirror, It Sees Many Faces Within Its Face - The Face Of The Child, The Boy, The Young Man, The Not-so-young Man - All Present Still, Preserved Like Fossils On Superimposed Layers, And, Like Fossils, Dead. Their Message To This Live Dying Creature Is: Look At Us - We Have Died - What Is There To Be Afraid Of? It Answers Them: But That Happened So Gradually, So Easily. I'm Afraid Of Being Rushed.

I'll Bet Shakespeare Compromised Himself A Lot; Anybody Who's In The Entertainment Industry Does To Some Extent.

I'm Like A Book You Have To Read. A Book Can't Read Itself To You. It Doesn't Even Know What It's About. I Don't Know What I'm About.

At One Campus Where I Was Lecturing, I Asked A Friend, "how Many Of My Colleagues Know I'm Gay?" He Answered, "all Of Them." I Wasn't Surprised. But, Just The Same, It Was Kind Of Spooky, Because Not One Of Them Had Ever Given Me The Faintest Sign That He Or She Knew. If I Had Spoken About It Myself, Most Of Them Would Have Felt It Was In Bad Taste.

The Talk Of Pale, Burning-eyed Students, Anarchists And Utopians All, Over Tea And Cigarettes In A Locked Room Long Past Midnight, Is Next Morning Translated, With The Literalness Of Utter Innocence, Into The Throwing Of The Bomb, The Shouting Of The Proud Slogan, The Dragging Away Of The Young Dreamer-doer, Still Smiling, To The Dungeon And The Firing Squad.