How Easily The Routine Of Sin Establishes

Granted: I Am An Inmate Of A Mental Hospital; My Keeper Is Watching Me, He Never Lets Me Out Of His Sight; There's A Peep-hole In The Door, And My Keeper's Eye Is The Shade Of Brown That Can Never See Through A Blue-eyed Type Like Me.

Melancholy Has Ceased To Be An Individual Phenomenon, An Exception. It Has Become The Class Privilege Of The Wage Earner, A Mass State Of Mind That Finds Its Cause Wherever Life Is Governed By Production Quotas.

So I Have No Grounds To Complain; On The Contrary, Writers Should Consider The Condition Of Permanent Controversiality To Be Invigorating, Part Of The Risk Envolved In Choosing The Profesión. It Is A Fact Of Life That Writers Have Always And With Due Consideration And Great Pleasure Spit In The Soup Of The High And Mighty. That Is What Makes The History Of Literature Analogous To The Development And Refinement Of Censorship.

Even If Surrounded With Explanations, Auschwitz Can Never Be Grasped.

Where Man Had Been, In Every Place He Left, Garbage Remained. Even In His Pursuit Of The Ultimate Truth And Quest For His God, He Produced Garbage. By His Garbage, Which Lay Stratum Upon Stratum, He Could Always - One Had Only To Dig - Be Known. For More Long-lived Than Man Is His Refuse. Garbage Alone Lives After Him.