Just Spunk Won't Be Enough; You've Got

And Somewhat As In Blind Night, On A Mild Sea, A Sailor May Be Made Aware Of An Iceberg, Fanged And Mortal, Bearing Invisibly Near, By The Unwarned Charm Of Its Breath, Nothingness Now Revealed Itself: That Permanent Night Upon Which The Stars In Their Expiring Generations Are Less Than The Glinting Of Gnats, And Nebulae, More Trivial Than Winter Breath; That Darkness In Which Eternity Lies Bent And Pale, A Dead Snake In A Jar, And Infinity Is The Sparkling Of A Wren Blown Out To Sea; That Inconceivable Chasm Of Invulnerable Silence In Which Cataclysms Of Galaxies Rave Mute As Amber.

When He Ran From A Cop, His Transitions From Accelerating Walk To Easy Jog Trot To Brisk Canter To Headlong Gallop To Flogged-piston Sprint . . . Were As Distinct And As Soberly In Order As An Automatic Gearshift.

It Is Clear Enough By Now To Most People That The Camera Never Lies Is A Foolish Saying. Yet It Is Doubtful Whether Most People Realize How Extraordinarily Slippery A Liar The Camera Is.

By Some Chance, Here They Are, All On This Earth; And Who Shall Ever Tell The Sorrow Of Being On This Earth, Lying, On Quilts, On The Grass In A Summer Evening, Among The Sounds Of The Night. May God Bless My People, My Uncle, My Aunt, My Mother, My Good Father, Oh, Remember Them Kindly In Their Time Of Trouble; And In The Hour Of Their Taking Away.

Isn’t Every Human Being Both A Scientist And An Artist; And In Writing Of Human Experience, Isn’t There A Good Deal To Be Said For Recognizing That Fact And For Using Both Methods?