My Books Are Not Really Books; Theyre

The Terms "idiot" And "lunatic" Were Acceptable Diagnostic Terms In England Up Until 1959. "imbecile" And "feeble-minded Person" Were, Likewise, Listed As Official Categories In The 1913 Mental Deficiency Act. England Has Always Lagged A Bit Behind In Discarding Outdated Terms For The Disadvantaged. When I Was There In 1980, It Was Still Possible To Shop For Used Clothing At The Local Spastic Shop. That Is, Compared To The United States, Where It Takes, Oh, About Twenty-five Minutes For A Diagnostic Euphemism To Become A Conversational Faux Pas.

I Would Have Sold My Wife And Children Into Slavery For A Ride Into Space.

Sharing A Room With A Cadaver Is Only Mildly Different From Being In A Room Alone. They Are The Same Sort Of Company As People Across From You On Subways Or In Airport Lounges, There But Not There. Your Eyes Keep Going Back To Them, For Lack Of Anything More Interesting To Look At, And Then You Feel Bad For Staring.

The Nobility Of The Human Spirit Grows Harder For Me To Believe In. War, Zealotry, Greed, Malls, Narcissism. I See A Backhanded Nobility In Excessive, Impractical Outlays Of Cash Prompted By Nothing Loftier Than A Species Joining Hands And Saying “i Bet We Can Do This.” Yes, The Money Could Be Better Spent On Earth. But Would It? Since When Has Money Saved By Government Red-lining Been Spent On Education And Cancer Research? It Is Always Squandered. Let’s Squander Some On Mars. Let’s Go Out And Play.

Normally I Object To Strangers Beaming Force Fields Into My Brain.