If A Man Cannot Tell What He

Loving Humanity Means As Much, And As Little, As Loving Raindrops, Or Loving The Milky Way. You Say That You Love Humanity? Are You Sure You Aren’t Treating Yourself To Easy Self-congratulation, Seeking Approval, Making Certain You’re On The Right Side?

Is Despair Wrong? Isn’t It The Natural Condition Of Life After A Certain Age? … After A Number Of Events, What Is There Left But Repetition And Diminishment? Who Wants To Go On Living? The Eccentric, The Religious, The Artistic (sometimes); Those With A False Sense Of Their Own Worth. Soft Cheeses Collapse; Firm Cheeses Endurate. Both Go Mouldy.

And Perhaps It Was Also The Case That, For All A Lifetime's Internal Struggling, You Were Finally No More Than What Others Saw You As. That Was Your Nature, Whether You Liked It Or Not.

What Is The Easiest, The Most Comfortable Thing For A Writer To Do? To Congratulate The Society In Which He Lives: To Admire Its Biceps, Applaud Its Progress, Tease It Endearingly About Its Follies.

But That’s One Advantage Of Fiction, You Can Speed Up Time.