Now We Have Lit A

Human Beings Are Part Of Nature. Anything They Do Is Natural. It's Impossible For Anything In Nature To Do Anything Unnatural.

Sawbeaked Epitome Of Bodiless Idea, Tossed By Gusts Of Ether, Dive Through Abstract Mists And Raid The Sea Of Fact Eat Rich Strange Fish, Grow Long Bright Feathers, Press Form's Flesh Around Thought's Rib, And So Derive From The Act Of Beauty, Beauty Of The Act.

Resurrection, Like Politics, Makes Strange Bedfellows.

It's A Peculiarity Of The Norwegian Culture And Of The English And American, Too, That Men Are Not Supposed To Cry. Stiff Upper Lip And All That. But The Vikings Cried Like Women In Public Or Privately. They Soaked Their Beards With Tears And Were Not One Bit Ashamed About It. Yet, They Were As Quick To Draw Their Swords As They Were To Shed Tears. So, What's All This Crap About Men Having To Hold In Their Sorrow And Grief And Disappointment?

The Truth Is That Trout, Like Vonnegut And Ray Bradbury And Many Others, Writes Parables. These Are Set In Frames Which Have Become Called, For No Good Reason, Science Fiction. A Better Generic Term Would Be 'future Fairy Tales'. And Even This Is Objectionable, Since Many Science Fiction Stories Take Place In The Present Or The Past, Far And Near.