Fiction Doesn’t Tell Us Something

It Is Possible, However, That The Artist Is Both Thin-skinned And Prophetic And, Like The Canary Lowered Into The Mine Shaft To Test The Air, Has Caught A Whiff Of Something Lethal.

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.

Nobody But A Southerner Knows The Wrenching Rinsing Sadness Of The Cities Of The North.

It Is Not Merely The Truth Of Science That Makes It Beautiful, But Its Simplicity.

A Repetition Is The Re-enactment Of Past Experience Toward The End Of Isolating The Time Segment Which Has Lapsed In Order That It, The Lapsed Time, Can Be Savored Of Itself And Without The Usual Adulteration Of Events That Clog Time Like Peanuts In Brittle.