It's A Basic Truth Of

Success On A Cosmic Level Completely Eludes Me. I'm Deeply Suspicious Of Things Being Too Good. It's Part Of My Superstition, I Think, To Generate Pain In Order To Give The Illusion Of Gain. I'm Not Saying I Reject Success, But Honestly, I Don't Quite Know How To Deal With It. It's An Old Feeling: As Soon As You Have The Thing You've Been Going After All Your Life, That Reasonable Degree Of Security, You Start Kicking Against It, Doubting It.

Driving A Motorcycle Is Like Flying. All Your Senses Are Alive. When I Ride Through Beverly Hills In The Early Morning, And All The Sprinklers Have Turned Off, The Scents That Wash Over Me Are Just Heavenly. Being House Is Like Flying, Too. You're Free Of The Gravity Of What People Think.

I Grew Up With An Impatience With The Anti-scientific. So I'm A Bit Miffed With Our Current Love Affair With All Things Eastern. If I Sneeze On The Set, 40 People Hand Me Echinacea. But I'd No Sooner Take That Than Eat A Pencil. Maybe That's Why I Took Up Boxing. It's My Response To Men In White Pajamas Feeling Each Other's Chi.

I Didn't Realize House Would Be The Central Character, More The Bitter Comic Relief Appearing Occasionally. I Relish His Wounded Nature - The Lameness, The Scarred Byronic Hero.

Death And Disaster Are At Our Shoulders Every Second Of Our Lives, Trying To Get At Us. Missing, A Lot Of The Time. A Lot Of Miles On The Motorway Without A Front Wheel Blow-out. A Lot Of Viruses That Slither Through Our Bodies Without Snagging. A Lot Of Pianos That Fall A Minute After We've Passed. Or A Month, It Makes No Difference. So Unless We're Going To Get Down On Our Knees And Give Thanks Every Time Disaster Misses, It Makes No Sense To Moan When It Strikes.