When Book And Reader's Furrowed

One May Decide That The Nipple Most Nearly Resembles A Newly Ripened Raspberry (never, Be It Noted, The Plonk Of Water On A Pond At The Commencement Of A Drizzle, A Simple Bladder Nozzle Built On The Suction Principal Gum Bubble, Mole, Or Birth Ward, Bumpy Metal Button, Or The Painful Red Eruption Of A Swelling), But Does One Care To See His Breakfast Fruit As A Sweetened Milky Bowl Of Snipped Nips? No.

Knowing Has Two Poles, And They Are Always Poles Apart: Carnal Knowing, The Laying On Of Hands, The Hanging Of The Fact By Head Or Heels, The Measurement Of Mass And Motion, The Calibration Of Brutal Blows, The Counting Of Supplies; And Spiritual Knowing, Invisibly Felt By The Inside Self, Who Is But A Fought-over Field Of Distraction, A Stage Where We Recite The Monotonous Monologue That Is Our Life, A Knowing Governed By Internal Tides, By Intimations, Motives, Resolutions, By Temptations, Secrecy, Shame, And Pride.

I Cannot Walk Under The Wires. The Sparrows Scatter Like Handfuls Of Gravel. Really, Wires Are Voices In Thin Strips. They Are Words Wound In Cables. Bars Of Connection.

Works Of Art Are Meant To Be Lived With And Loved, And If We Try To Understand Them, We Should Try To Understand Them As We Try To Understand Anyone — In Order To Know Them Better, Not In Order To Know Something Else.

I Am Firmly Of The Opinion That People Who Can’t Speak Have Nothing To Say. It’s One More Thing We Do To The Poor, The Deprived: Cut Out Their Tongues … Allow Them A Language As Lousy As Their Life