The Revolution Eats Its Own. Capitalism Re-creates

Well, When I Was A Young Writer The People We Read Were Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Sartre, Camus, Celine, Malraux. And To Begin With, I Was A Bit Of A Copycat Writer And Very Derivative And Tried To Write A Novel Using Their Voices, Really.... I Keep It Out Of Print.

Mr. Bernard Died On A Monday, At The Age Of Seventy-five, His Body Wasted. He Lay In State For Two Days In The Lobby Of The Bernard Gursky Tower And, As He Failed To Rise On The Third, He Was Duly Buried.

There Are Three Sides To Every Argument. Yours. The Other Guy's. And The Right Side.

For The Record, Pot, Like The Reader's Digest , Is Not Necessarily Habit-forming, But Both Can Lead To Hard-core Addiction : Heroin, In One Case, Abridged Bad Books, In The Other. Either Way You Look At It, A Withdrawal From A Meaningful Life.

Canada Is One Of The Few Places Left Where The Small Decencies Are Observed. If, As A Young Man, I Was Scornful Of The Country Because We Always Seemed So Far Behind Style-setting New York, I Now Thank God For The Cultural Lag. Ours, After All, Is The Good Neighbourhood. A Society Well Worth Preserving.