Art Is Hard For A

Everybody Knows How Fallible Memory Can Sometimes Be. You Remember Certain Fragments Precisely, But As Soon As You Try To Join The Fragments Together, For A Story, There Is A Certain - Not Falsification, But A Shifting.

People Have Always Told Tales. Long Before Humanity Learned To Write And Gradually Became Literate, Everybody Told Tales To Everybody Else And Everybody Listened To Everybody Else's Tales. Before Long It Became Clear That Some Of The Still Illiterate Storytellers Told More And Better Tales Than Others, That Is, They Could Make More People Believe Their Lies.

The Patience Of Poverty. In Rice Fields, Backs Bent Forever. Amazing, Man Outoxens The Oxen And Still Smiles. The Mystery Of India, Say Indologists.

If I Were Asked To Think Up A New Name For Temptation, I Should Recommend The Word 'doorknob', Because What Are These Protuberances Put On Doors For If Not To Tempt Us.

I Wept When The Muse Ulla Bent Over Me. Blinded By Tears I Could Not Prevent Her From Kissing Me, I Could Not Prevent The Muse From Giving Me That Terrible Kiss. All Of You Who Have Ever Been Kissed By The Muse Will Surely Understand That Oskar, Once Branded By That Kiss, Was Condemned To Take Back The Drum He Had Rejected Years Before, The Drum He Had Buried In The Sand Of Sapse Cemetery.