The World Exists For Its Own Sake,

We Are Befouling And Destroying Our Own Home, We Are Committing A Slow But Accelerating Race Suicide And Life Murder - Planetary Biocide. Now There Is A Mighty Theme For A Mighty Book But A Challenge To Which No Modern Novelist Or Poet Has Yet Responded. Where Is Our Melville, Our Milton, Our Thomas Mann When We Need Him Most?

Readers, Not Critics, Are The People Who Determine A Book's Eventual Fate.

By The Age Of Forty, A Man Is Responsible For His Face. And His Fate.

I Believe That There Is A Kind Of Poetry, Even A Kind Of Truth, In Simple Fact.

England Has Never Enjoyed A Genuine Social Revolution. Maybe That's What's Wrong With That Dear, Tepid, Vapid, Insipid, Stuffy, Little Country.