The Alcoholic Trance Is Not Just A

For The Speedy Reader Paragraphs Become A Country The Eye Flies Over Looking For Landmarks, Reference Points, Airports, Restrooms, Passages Of Sex.

The Death Of God Represents Not Only The Realization That Gods Have Never Existed, But The Contention That Such A Belief Is No Longer Even Irrationally Possible: That Neither Reason Nor The Taste And Temper Of The Times Condones It. The Belief Lingers On, Of Course, But It Does So Like Astrology Or A Faith In A Flat Earth.

I Am Unlikely To Trust A Sentence That Comes Easily.

But The Body Fails Us And The Mirror Knows, And We No Longer Insist That The Gray Hush Be Carried Off Its Surface By The Cloth, For We Have Run To Fat, And Wrinkles Encircle The Eyes And Notch The Neck Where The Skin Wattles, And The Flesh Of The Arms Hangs Loose Like An Overlarge Sleeve, Veins Thicken Like Ropes And Empurple The Body As Though They Had Been Drawn There By A Pen, Freckles Darken, Liver Spots Appear, The Hairah, The Hair Is Exhausted And Gray And Lusterless, In Weary Rolls Like Cornered Lint.

The Things That Stayed Were Things That Didn't Matter Except They Stayed, Night And Day, All Seasons The Same, And Were Peaceful To A Fault And Boded No Ill But Thought Well Enough Of Themselves To Repeat Their Presences.