I've Made An Ass Of Myself So

Every Time A Story About Me Appears In A Newspaper, I Am Injured Professionally.

Indeed The Early History Of Rocket Design Could Be Read As The Simple Desire To Get The Rocket To Function Long Enough To Give An Opportunity To Discover Where The Failure Occurred. Most Early Debacles Were So Benighted That Rocket Engineers Could Have Been Forgiven For Daubing The Blood Of A Virgin Goat On The Orifice Of The Firing Chamber.

I Become An Actor, A Quick-change Artist, As If I Can Trap The Prince Of Truth In The Act Of Switching A Style.

I Was Now At A University In New York, A Professor Of Existential Psychology With The Not Inconsiderable Thesis That Magic, Dread, And The Perception Of Death Were The Roots Of Motivation.

I Usually Need A Can Of Beer To Prime Me.