It Is Often Pleasant To Stone A

Like An Ox-cart Driver In Monsoon Season Or The Skipper Of A Grounded Ship, One Must Sometimes Go Forward By Going Back.

A Curious Thing About Written Literature: It Is About Four Thousand Years Old, But We Have No Way Of Knowing Whether Four Thousand Years Constitutes Senility Or The Maiden Blush Of Youth.

Is Man A Savage At Heart, Skinned O'er With Fragile Manners? Or Is Savagery But A Faint Taint In The Natural Man's Gentility, Which Erupts Now And Again Like Pimples On An Angel's Arse?

All Men Are Loyal, But Their Objects Of Allegiance Are At Best Approximate.

Though Life's Tuition Is Always Ruinous, Inexorably We Learn.