Fear . . . Is Forward. No

Moral Self-infatuation Has Its Own Corruptions, After All. With Time, Almost Every Other Principle Of The Magazine Acquired An Ironic Echo, A Sort Of Cackling Aftermath.

Things Have Changed Very Much, Several Times, Since I Grew Up, And, Like Everyone In New York Except The Intellectuals, I Have Led Several Lives And I Still Lead Some Of Them.

The Writer Has A Grudge Against Society, Which He Documents With Accounts Of Unsatisfying Sex, Unrealized Ambition, Unmitigated Loneliness, And A Sense Of Local And Global Distress. The Square, Overpopulation, The Bourgeois, The Bomb And The Cocktail Party Are Variously Identified As Sources Of The Grudge. There Follows A Little Obscenity Here, A Dash Of Philosophy There, Considerable Whining Overall, And A Modern Satirical Novel Is Born.

And Then There Were The Wallflowers Who Had Recognized For Years That The Thing Was Hopeless, Who Had Found In That Information A Kind Of Calm. They No Longer Tried, With A Bright And Desperate Effort, To Sustain A Conversation With Somebody's Brother, Somebody's Usher, Somebody's Roommate, Somebody's Roommate's Usher's Brother... The Category Of Wallflower Who Had Given Up On All This Was Very Quiet, Not Indifferent, Only Quiet. And She Always Brought A Book.

There Are So Many Different Types Of Writers. It's Just Sheer Coincidence That They're All Called Writers.