Each Time Is True, But

In This Acausal World, Scientists Are Helpless. Their Predictions Become Postdictions- Their Equations Become Justifications, Their Logic, Illogic. Scientists Turn Reckless And Mutter Like Gamblers Who Cannot Stop Betting. Scientists Are Buffoons, Not Because They Are Rational But Because The Cosmos Is Irrational. Or Perhaps It Is Not Because The Cosmos Is Irrational But Because They Are Rational. Who Can Say Which, In An Acausal World?

Most People Have Learned To Live In The Moment. The Argument Goes That If The Past Has Uncertain Effect On The Present, There Is No Need To Dwell On The Past. And If The Present Has Little Effect On The Future, Present Actions Need Not Be Weighed For Their Consequence. Rather, Each Act Is An Island In Time, To Be Judged On Its Own. ... It Is A World Of Impulse. It Is A World Of Sincerity. It Is A World In Which Every Word Spoken Speaks Just To That Moment, Every Glance Given Has Only One Meaning.

There Is A Place Where Time Stands Still ...illuminated By Only The Most Feeble Red Light, For Light Is Diminished To Almost Nothing At The Center Of Time, Its Vibrations Slowed To Echoes In Vast Canyons, Its Intensity Reduced To The Faint Glow Of Fireflies.

The Book Is Finished By The Reader. A Good Novel Should Invite The Reader In And Let The Reader Participate In The Creative Experience And Bring Their Own Life Experiences To It, Interpret With Their Own Individual Life Experiences. Every Reader Gets Something Different From A Book And Every Reader, In A Sense, Completes It In A Different Way.

My Second Novel, "good Benito", Was Not Finished. I Wished That I Had Spent Another Year With It.