All Men Are Creative But

To Translate, One Must Have A Style Of His Own, For The Translation Will Have No Rhythm Or Nuance, Which Come From The Process Of Artistically Thinking Through And Molding The Sentences; They Cannot Be Reconstituted By Piecemeal Imitation. The Problem Of Translation Is To Retreat To A Simpler Tenor Of One’s Own Style And Creatively Adjust This To One’s Author.

The Ideal Of Having A Real Job That You Risk Your Soul In And Make Good Or Be Damned, Belongs To The Heroic Age Of Capitalist Enterprise, Imbued With Self-righteous Beliefs About Hard Work, Thrift, And Public Morals. Such An Ideal Might Still Have Been Mentioned In Public Fifty Years Ago; In Our Era Of Risk-insured Semimonopolies And Advertised Vices It Would Be Met With A Ghastly Stillness.

Few Great Men Would Have Got Past Personnel.

Not To Teach The Whole Curriculum Is To Give Up On The Whole Man.

In Our Truly Remarkable An Unexampled Civil Peace, Where There Are Rarely Fist Fights; Where No One Is Born, Is Gravely Ill, Or Dies; Where Meat Is Eaten But No One Sees An Animal Slaughtered; Where Scores Of Millions Of Cars, Trains, Elevators, And Airplanes Go Their Scheduled Way And There Is Rarely A Crash; Where An Immense Production Proceeds In Orderly Efficiency And The Shelves Are Duly Clears And Nevertheless None Of This Come To Joy Or Tragic Grief Or Any Other Final Good It Is Not Surprising If There Are Explosions.