There Are Few Things In The World

Perhaps Everyone Loved Someone; I Didn't Now, I Couldn't Give Much Thought To Love; In Order To Travel Far You Had To Be Detached, And I Had The Long Road Back To The Campus Before Me.

Many Of The Rites Of Passage, Those Rituals Of Growing Up Found In Our Society, Are In The Form Of Such Comic, Practical Joking Affairs--which We Ignore In The Belief That They Possess No Deeper Significance. Yet It Is Precisely In Their Being Regarded As Unimportant That They Take On Importance. For In Them We Ritualize And Dramatize Attitudes Which Contradict And Often Embarrass The Sacred Values Which We Proclaim Through Our Solemn Ceremonies And Rituals Of Nationhood.

The Blues Is An Art Of Ambiguity, An Assertion Of The Irrepressibly Human Over All Circumstance Whether Created By Others Or By One's Own Human Failings. They Are The Only Consistent Art In The United States Which Constantly Remind Us Of Our Limitations While Encouraging Us To See How Far We Can Actually Go. When Understood In Their More Profound Implication, They Are A Corrective, An Attempt To Draw A Line Upon Man's Own Limitless Assertion.

Injustice Wears Ever The Same Harsh Face Wherever It Shows Itself.

I Felt That Even When They Were Polite They Hardly Saw Me, That They Would Have Begged The Pardon Of Jack The Bear, Never Glancing His Way If The Bear Happened To Be Walking Along Minding His Business. It Was Confusing. I Did Not Know If It Was Desirable Or Undesirable.