What Use, After All, Is

Worship Isn't Destructive, Martin. I Know That. I Don't. I Only Know It's The Core Of His Life. What Else Has He Got? He Can Hardly Read. He Knows No Physics Or Engineering To Make To World Real For Him. No Paintings To Show Him How Others Have Enjoyed It. No Music Except Television Jingles. No History Except Tales From A Desperate Mother. No Friends. Not One Kid To Give Him A Joke, Or Make Him Know Himself More Moderately. He's A Modern Citizen For Whom Society Doesn't Exist.

All I Ever Wanted Was To Sing To God. He Gave Me That Longing And Then Made Me Mute.

The Normal Is The Good Smile In A Child's Eyes- All Right. It Is Also The Dead Stare In A Million Adults. It Both Sustains And Kills- Like A God. It Is The Ordinary Made Beautiful; It Is Also The Average Made Leathal. The Normal Is The Indispensable, Murderous God Of Health.

I Made, Over The Years In Cambridge, Several Very Good American Friends, And America Appeared To Me, A Land Of Promise In Every Sense Of That Word, A Land Of Freedom From The Inhibitions And Restrictions That I Felt In England.

What Use, After All, Is Man, If Not To Teach God His Lessons?