My Mind Is Not Suited To Go

Only One Person In A Thousand Knows The Trick Of Really Living In The Present. Most Of Us Spend Fifty-nine Minutes An Hour Living In The Past, With Regret For Lost Joys Or Shame For Things Badly Done (both Utterly Useless And Weakening) Or In A Future Which We Either Long For Or Dread. . . . There Is Only One Minute In Which You Are Alive, This Minute, Here And Now. The Only Way To Live Is By Accepting Each Minute As An Unrepeatable Miracle. Which Is Exactly What It Is-a Miracle And Unrepeatable.

No Form Of Art Repeats Or Imitates Successfully All That Can Be Said By Another; The Writer Conveys His Experience Of Life Along A Channel Of Communication Closed To Painter, Mathematician, Musician, Film-maker.

Very Rare, The Intelligence Of The Heart. The Intelligence Of The Whimsical Brain Is Less Rare, Less Attaching, Sometimes Tedious.

To Grow Old Is To Have Taken Away, One By One, All Gifts Of Life, The Food And Wine, The Music And The Company. ... The Gods Unloose, One By One, The Mortal Fingers That Cling To The Edge Of The Table.

Inevitably, The Flood Of Literary Pornography Loosed On Us Is Dulling Our Reactions Of Surprise Or Shock. Its Writers Are Forced To Raise The Ante, To Provide Stronger And Stronger Stimulants. Or Try To Provide Them, Since Both The Manner, The Naming Of Parts And The Few Inexpressive Four-letter Words, And The Matter, Are Narrowly Limited.