What Will I Do When I Can

Truth Is Neither Ojectivity Nor The Balanced View; Truth Is A Selfless Subjectivity.

Language Must Resound With All The Harmonies Of Music. The Writer Must Always, At All Times, Find The Tremulous Word Which Captures The Thing And Is Able To Draw A Sob From My Soul By Its Very Rightness.

What If One Were Up There, Drifting About Among Suns And Feeling The Tails Of Comets Fan One's Forehead! How Small The Earth Was And How Puny The People; A Norway Of Two Million Provincial Souls And A Mortgage Bank To Help Feed Them! What Was Life Worth At Such A Rate? You Elbowed Yourself Ahead In The Sweat Of Your Face For A Few Mortal Years, Only To Perish All The Same, All The Same!

You Are Welcome To Your Intellectual Pastimes And Books And Art And Newspapers; Welcome, Too, To Your Bars And Your Whisky That Only Makes Me Ill. Here Am I In The Forest, Quite Content.

But Things Worked Out. Everything Works Out. Though Sometimes They Work Out Sideways.