The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn. But Where The Wind Is Westerly, Where Gnarled November Makes The Spiders Fly Into The Apparitions Of The Sky, They Purpose Nothing But Their Ease And Die Urgently Beating East To Sunrise And The Sea.

It's A Completely Powerful And Serious Book, As Good As Anything In Prose Or Poetry Written By A 'beat' Writer, And One Of The Most Alive Books Written By Any American For Years. I Don't See How It Could Be Considered Immoral.

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.