Philosophy Has A Great Sort

Getting Even Is One Reason For Writing.

Words Are The Supreme Objects. They Are Minded Things.

We Converse As We Live By Repeating, By Combining And Recombining A Few Elements Over And Over Again Just As Nature Does When Of Elementary Particles It Builds A World.

We Have Scarcely Gotten Home ... When Our Children's Sneezes Greet Us, Skinned Knees Bleed After Waiting All Day To Do So. There Is The Bellyache And The Burned-out Basement Bulb, The Stalled Car And The Incontinent Cat. The Windows Frost, The Toilets Sweat, The Body Of Our Spouse Is One Cold Shoulder And The Darkness Of Our Bedroom Is Soon Full Of The Fallen Shadows Of Our Failures.

One May Decide That The Nipple Most Nearly Resembles A Newly Ripened Raspberry (never, Be It Noted, The Plonk Of Water On A Pond At The Commencement Of A Drizzle, A Simple Bladder Nozzle Built On The Suction Principal Gum Bubble, Mole, Or Birth Ward, Bumpy Metal Button, Or The Painful Red Eruption Of A Swelling), But Does One Care To See His Breakfast Fruit As A Sweetened Milky Bowl Of Snipped Nips? No.