It Isn't That There's No Right And

It Was A Good Place For Getting Lost In, A City No One Ever Knew, A City Explored From The Neutral Heart Outward, Until After Many Years, It Defined Itself Into A Jumble Of Clearings Separated By Stretches Of The Unknown, Through Which The Narrowest Of Paths Had Been Cut.

As A Child I Knew Almost Nothing, Nothing Beyond What I Had Picked Up In My Grandmother's House. All Children, I Suppose, Come Into The World Like That, Not Knowing Who They Are.

My Grief Is That The Publishing World, The Book Writing World Is An Extraordinary Shoddy, Dirty, Dingy World.

I Went To India And Met Some People Who Had Been Involved In This Guerrilla Business, Middle-class People Who Were Rather Vain And Foolish. There Was No Revolutionary Grandeur To It. Nothing.

The Melancholy Thing About The World Is That It Is Full Of Stupid People; And The World Is Run For The Benefit Of The Stupid And Common.