There Is Not Any Way That You

Picture This Scene. A Critic Arrives At The Gates Of Heaven. 'and What Did You Do?' Asks Saint Peter. 'well', Says The Dead Soul. 'i Criticised Things'. 'i Beg Your Pardon?' 'you Know, Other People Wrote Things, Performed Things, Painted Things And I Said Stuff Like, "thin And Unconvincing", "turgid And Uninspired", "competent And Serviceable,"...you Know'.

Money Is To Everything As An Aeroplane Is To Australia. The Aeroplane Isn't Australia, But It Remains The Only Practical Way We Know Of Reaching It. So Perhaps, Metonymically, The Aeroplane Is Australia After All.

Lectures Broke Into One's Day And Were Clearly A Terrible Waste Of Time, Necessary No Doubt If You Were Reading Law Or Medicine Or Some Other Vocational Subject, But In The Case Of English, The Natural Thing To Do Was Talk A Lot, Listen To Music, Drink Coffee And Wine, Read Books, And Go To Plays, Perhaps Be In Plays.

Mind You, Mount Rushmore Isn't Exactly The Parthenon Or The Sistine Chapel Either. After The Naïve Daftness Of The Crazy Horse Monument, I Find The Pompous Idiocy Of Those Four Presidents Somehow More Risible Still. Wishing To Show Respect Or Feel A Vicarious Thrill Of Admiration And Pride, I Can Only Giggle. For Which I Am Very Sorry. Any Loyal American Reading This Who Feels Outraged And Insulted Is Free To Explode With Derisive Snorts Of Laughter At Any British Equivalent.

Not One Word Of The Following Is True