A Novel Is What You

The Mystery Lies In The Here And Now. The Mystery Is: What Is One To Do With Oneself? As You Get Older You Begin To Realize The Trick Time Is Playing, And That Unless You Do Something About It, The Passage Of Time Is Nothing But The Encroachment Of The Horrible Banality Of The Past On The Pure Future. The Past Devours The Future Like A Tape Recorder, Converting Pure Possibility Into Banality. The Present Is The Tape Head, The Mouth Of Time. Then Where Is The Mystery And Why Bother Kicking Through The Ashes? Because There Is A Clue In The Past.

For Some Time Now The Impression Has Been Growing Upon Me That Everyone Is Dead. It Happens When I Speak To People. In The Middle Of A Sentence It Will Come Over Me: Yes, Beyond A Doubt This Is Death. There Is Little To Do But Groan And Make An Excuse And Slip Away As Quickly As One Can.

You Can Get All A's And Still Flunk Life.

Why Is It That One Can Look At A Lion Or A Planet Or An Owl Or At Someone's Finger As Long As One Pleases, But Looking Into The Eyes Of Another Person Is, If Prolonged Past A Second, A Perilous Affair?

As For Hobbies, People With Stimulating Hobbies Suffer From The Most Noxious Of Despairs Since They Are Tranquilized In Their Despair.