In This World Goodness Is

But What Physician Has Not Had Patients Who Don't Make Any Sense At All? To Tell The Truth, They're Our Stock-in-trade. We Talk And Write About The Ones We Can Make Sense Of.

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.

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?

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.

Boredom Is The Self Being Stuffed With Itself.