That Sinister Stonehenge Of Economic

If Montaigne Is A Man In The Prime Of Life Sitting In His Study On A Warm Morning And Putting Down The Sum Of His Experience In His Rich, Sinewy Prose, Then Pascal Is That Same Man Lying Awake In The Small Hours Of The Night When Death Seems Very Close And Every Thought Is Heightened By The Apprehension That It May Be His Last.

A Mutually Fulfilled Sexual Union Between Two People Is The Rarest Sensation Which Life Can Provide. But It Is Not Quite Real. It Stops When The Telephone Rings. Such A Passion Can Be Kept At Its Early Strength Only By Adding To It Either More And More Unhappiness (jealousy, Separation, Doubt, Renunciation), Or More And More Artificiality (drink, Technique, Stage-illusions). Whoever Has Missed This Has Never Lived, Who Lives For It Alone Is But Partly Alive.

The River Of Truth Is Always Splitting Up Into Arms That Reunite. Islanded Between Them, The Inhabitants Argue For A Lifetime As To Which Is The Mainstream.

In America Every Woman Has Her Set Of Girl-friends; Some Are Cousins, The Rest Are Gained At School. These Form A Permanent Committee Who Sit On Each Other's Affairs, Who Come Out Together, Marry And Divorce Together, And Who End As Those Groups Of Bustling, Heartless Well-informed Club-women Who Govern Society. Against Them The Couple Of Ehepaar Is Helpless And Man In Their Eyes But A Biological Interlude.

The Dread Of Loneliness Is Greater Than The Fear Of Bondage, So We Get Married.