My Mind Is Not Suited To Go

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.

War, For Any Cause, Is Inexcusable. There Is Nothing Which Excuses Us For The Beastly Ingenuity Of Our Wars. Only Fools, Only The Diseased, Think That We Are Served By Killing The Strong Young Men With Machines.

You Can't Argue With A Raging Want. You Can, But It Is Useless.

Is It Really Beyond Our Wits To Devise Some Form Of Censorship Which Would Trap Only The Crudely Sadistic?

What I Do Not Know And Cannot Even Hope To Understand Before I Die Is Why Human Beings Are Willfully, Coldly, Matter-of-factly Cruel To Each Other ... What Nerve Has Atrophied In The Torturer, Or Worse Is Sensually Moved?