He Who Cries, 'what Do

Comedy Springs From The Ludicrous; But The Ludicrous Is Stuck In The Muck Of Reality, Resolutely Hostile To What Is Impossible.

In 1952, I Had Gone To England On A Literary Pilgrimage, But What I Also Saw, Even At That Distance From The Blitz, Were Bombed-out Ruins And An Enervated Society, While The Continent Was Still, Psychologically, In The Grip Of Its Recent Atrocities.

A. Critics: People Who Make Monuments Out Of Books. B. Biographers: People Who Make Books Out Of Monuments. C. Poets: People Who Raze Monuments. D. Publishers: People Who Sell Rubble. E. Readers: People Who Buy It.

I Measure My Life In Sentences Pressed Out, Line By Line, Like The Lustrous Ooze On The Underside Of The Snail, The Snail's Secret Open Seam, Its Wound, Leaking Attar.

Travelers Are Fantasists, Conjurers, Seers - And What They Finally Discover Is That Every Round Object Everywhere Is A Crystal Ball: Stone, Teapot, The Marvelous Globe Of The Human Eye.