Global Warming Is More Of A Blessing

Books Are Where Things Are Explained To You; Life Is Where Things Aren't.

There Is Accumulation. There Is Responsibility. And Beyond This There Is Great Unrest.

I Have At Times Tried To Imagine The Despair Which Leads To Suicide, Attempted To Conjure Up The Slew And Slop Of Darkness In Which Only Death Appears As A Pinprick Of Light: In Other Words, The Exact Opposite Of The Normal Condition Of Life.

He Had A Better Mind And A More Rigorous Temperament Than Me; He Thought Logically, And Then Acted On The Conclusion Of Logical Thought. Whereas Most Of Us, I Suspect, Do The Opposite: We Make An Instinctive Decision, Then Build Up An Infrastructure Of Reasoning To Justify It. And Call The Result Common Sense.

He Thought Of Trying To Explain Something He Had Recently Noticed About Himself: That If Anyone Insulted Him, Or One Of His Friends, He Didn't Really Mind--or Not Much, Anyway. Whereas If Anyone Insulted A Novel, A Story, A Poem That He Loved, Something Visceral And Volcanic Occurred Within Him. He Wasn't Sure What This Might Mean--except Perhaps That He Had Got Life And Art Mixed Up, Back To Front, Upside Down.