Liberty, As It Is Conceived By Current

Labor Is Work That Leaves No Trace Behind It When It Is Finished, Or If It Does, As In The Case Of The Tilled Field, This Product Of Human Activity Requires Still More Labor, Incessant, Tireless Labor, To Maintain Its Identity As A 'work' Of Man.

Our Language, Once Homely And Colloquial, Seeks To Aggrandize Our Meanest Activities With Polysyllabic Terms Or It Retreats From Frankness Into A Stammering Verbosity.

As Subjects, We All Live In Suspense, From Day To Day, From Hour To Hour; In Other Words, We Are The Hero Of Our Own Story. We Cannot Believe That It Is Finished, That We Are 'finished,' Even Though We May Say So; We Expect Another Chapter, Another Installment, Tomorrow Or Next Week.

The Exile Is A Singular, Whereas Refugees Tend To Be Thought Of In The Mass ... What Is Implied In These Nuances Of Social Standing Is The Respect We Pay To Choice. The Exile Appears To Have Made A Decision, While The Refugee Is The Very Image Of Helplessness.

It Really Seems To Me Sometimes That The Only Hope Is Space. That Is To Say, Perhaps The Most Energetic—in A Bad Sense—elements Will Move On To A New World In Space. The Problems Of Mass Society Will Be Transported Into Space, Leaving Behind This World As A Kind Of Europe, Which Then Eventually Tourists Will Visit. The Old World. I'm Only Half Joking.