If It Is Not Beautiful For Someone,

How Real Is Any Of The Past, Being Every Moment Revalued To Make The Present Possible.

Everybody Has That Feeling When They Look At A Work Of Art And It's Right, That Sudden Familiarity, A Sort Of...recognition, As Though They Were Creating It Themselves, As Though It Were Being Created Through Them While They Look At It Or Listen To It.

How Some Of The Writers I Come Across Get Through Their Books Without Dying Of Boredom Is Beyond Me.

Tragedy Was Foresworn, In Ritual Denial Of The Ripe Knowledge That We Are Drawing Away From One Another, That We Share Only One Thing, Share The Fear Of Belonging To Another, Or To Others, Or To God; Love Or Money, Tender Equated In Advertising And The World, Where Only Money Is Currency, And Under Dead Trees And Brittle Ornaments Prehensile Hands Exchange Forgeries Of What The Heart Dare Not Surrender.

I See The Player Piano As The Grandfather Of The Computer, The Ancestor Of The Entire Nightmare We Live In, The Birth Of The Binary World Where There Is No Option Other Than Yes Or No And Where There Is No Refuge.