Not Every Boy Thrown To

It's Easier And Sociabler To Talk Technique Than It Is To Make Art.

I Particularly Scorn My Fondness For Paradox. I Despise Pessimism, Narcissism, Solipsism, Truculence, Word-play, And Pusillanimity, My Chiefer Inclinations; Loathe Self-loathers Ergo Me; Have No Pity For Self-pity And So Am Free Of That Sweet Baseness. I Doubt I Am. Being Me’s No Joke.

Is Man A Savage At Heart, Skinned O'er With Fragile Manners? Or Is Savagery But A Faint Taint In The Natural Man's Gentility, Which Erupts Now And Again Like Pimples On An Angel's Arse?

The Genie Declared That In His Time And Place There Were Scientists Of The Passions Who Maintained That Language Itself, On The One Hand, Originated In 'infantile Pregenital Erotic Exuberance, Polymorphously Perverse,' And That Conscious Attention, On The Other, Was A 'libidinal Hypercathexis' - By Which Magic Phrases They Seemed To Mean That Writing And Reading, Or Telling And Listening, Were Literally Ways Of Making Love.

My Dear Fellow,' Burlingame Said, 'we Sit Here On A Blind Rock Careening Through Space; We Are All Of Us Rushing Headlong To The Grave. Think You The Worms Will Care, When Anon They Make A Meal Of You, Whether You Spent Your Moment Sighing Wigless In Your Chamber, Or Sacked The Golden Towns Of Montezuma? Lookee, The Day's Nigh Spent; 'tis Gone Careening Into Time Forever. Not A Tale's Length Past We Lined Our Bowels With Dinner, And Already They Growl For More. We Are Dying Men, Ebenezer: I'faith, There's Time For Naught But Bold Resolves!