And Who Understands? Not Me,

I Wonder What Your Idea Of Heaven Would Be — A Beautiful Vacuum Filled With Wealthy Monogamists. All Powerful And Members Of The Best Families All Drinking Themselves To Death. And Hell Would Probably An Ugly Vacuum Full Of Poor Polygamists Unable To Obtain Booze Or With Chronic Stomach Disorders That They Called Secret Sorrows.

Poor Faulkner. Does He Really Think Big Emotions Come From Big Words?

Each Day Of Not Writing, Of Comfort, Of Being That Which He Despised, Dulled His Ability And Softened His Will To Work So That, Finally, He Did No Work At All.

Time Is The Least Thing We Have.

Our Nada Who Art In Nada, Nada Be Thy Name Thy Kingdom Nada Thy Will Be Nada In Nada As It Is In Nada. Give Us This Nada Our Daily Nada And Nada Us Our Nada As We Nada Our Nadas And Nada Us Not Into Nada But Deliver Us From Nada; Pues Nada. Hail Nothing Full Of Nothing, Nothing Is With Thee.