It Is Not Merely The

I Sometimes Think Novelists Write About Sex In Order To Avoid Boring Themselves To Death.

For The World Is Broken, Sundered, Busted Down The Middle, Self Ripped From Self And Man Pasted Back Together As Mythical Monster, Half Angel, Half Beast, But No Man...some Day A Man Will Walk Into My Office As A Ghost Or Beast Or Ghost-beast And Walk Out As A Man, Which Is To Say Sovereign Wanderer, Lordly Exile, Worker And Waiter And Watcher.

Like Many Young Men In The South, He Had Trouble Ruling Out The Possible. They Are Not Like An Immigrant's Son In Passaic Who Desires To Become A Dentist And That Is That. Southerners Have Trouble Ruling Out The Possible. What Happens To A... Man To Whom All Things Seem Possible And Every Course Of Action Open? Nothing Of Course.

To Become Aware Of The Possibility Of The Search Is To Be Onto Something.

The Present Age Is Demented. It Is Possessed By A Sense Of Dislocation, A Loss Of Personal Identity, An Alternating Sentimentality And Rage Which, In An Individual Patient, Could Be Characterized As Dementia.