The Great Grey Beast February

I Am A Man, And Men Are Animals Who Tell Stories. This Is A Gift From God, Who Spoke Our Species Into Being, But Left The End Of Our Story Untold. That Mystery Is Troubling To Us. How Could It Be Otherwise? Without The Final Part, We Think, How Are We To Make Sense Of All That Went Before: Which Is To Say, Our Lives? So We Make Stories Of Our Own, In Fevered And Envious Imitation Of Our Maker, Hoping That We'll Tell, By Chance, What God Left Untold. And Finishing Our Tale, Come To Understand Why We Were Born.

We Have Great Cities To Visit: New York And Washington, Paris And London; And Further East, And Older Than Any Of These, The Legendary City Of Samarkand, Whose Crumbling Palaces And Mosques Still Welcome Travelers On The Silk Road. Weary Of Cities? Then We’ll Take To The Wilds. To The Islands Of Hawaii And The Mountains Of Japan, To Forests Where Civil War Dead Still Lie, And Stretches Of Sea No Mariner Ever Crossed. They All Have Their Poetry: The Glittering Cities And The Ruined, The Watery Wastes And The Dusty; I Want To Show You Them All. I Want To Show You Everything.

The Paintings Of Francis Bacon To My Eye Are Very Beautiful. The Paintings Of Bosch Or Goya Are To My Eye Very Beautiful. I've Also Stood In Front Of Those Same Paintings With People Who've Said, 'let's Get On To The Botticellis As Soon As Possible.' I Have Lingered, Of Course.

It Is Great Good Health To Believe As The Hindus Do That There Are 33 Million Gods And Goddesses In The World. It Is Great Good Health To Want To Understand One S Dreams. It Is Great Good Health To Desire The Ambiguous And Paradoxical. It Is Sickness Of The Profoundest Kind To Believe That There Is One Reality. There Is Sickness In Any Piece Of Work Or Any Piece Of Art Seriously Attempting To Suggest That The Idea That There Is More Than One Reality Is Somehow Redundant.

My Feet Are Killing Me." "i Knew Somebody Who Had Feet Like That. They'd Walk All Over Him. Archie Kashanian Was His Name. He Used To Wake Up With Footprints All Over His Chest, All Over His Face. It Was The Death Of Him, Finally.