Every Stink That Fights The Ventilator Thinks

Practically All Sf Is Trash.

Have It Compose A Poem -- A Poem About A Haircut! But Lofty, Noble, Tragic, Timeless, Full Of Love, Treachery, Retribution, Quiet Heroism In The Face Of Certain Doom! Six Lines, Cleverly Rhymed, And Every Word Beginning With The Letter S!

The Fate Of A Single Man Can Be Rich With Significance, That Of A Few Hundred Less So, But The History Of Thousands And Millions Of Men Does Not Mean Anything At All, In Any Adequate Sense Of The Word.

For Some Time There Was A Widely Held Notion (zealously Fostered By The Daily Press) To The Effect That The 'thinking Ocean' Of Solaris Was A Gigantic Brain, Prodigiously Well-developed And Several Million Years In Advance Of Our Own Civilization, A Sort Of 'cosmic Yogi', A Sage, A Symbol Of Omniscience, Which Had Long Ago Understood The Vanity Of All Action And For This Reason Had Retreated Into An Unbreakable Silence.

Psychoanalytic Doctrine Reveals The Pig In Man, A Pig Saddled With A Conscience; The Disastrous Result Is That The Pig Is Uncomfortable Beneath That Pious Rider, And The Rider Fares No Better In The Situation, Since His Endeavor Is Not Only To Tame The Pig, But Also To Render It Invisible.