The Rewards For Being Sane

Twentieth Century Music Is Like Paedophilia. No Matter How Persuasively And Persistently Its Champions Urge Their Cause, It Will Never Be Accepted By The Public At Large, Who Will Continue To Regard It With Incomprehension, Outrage And Repugnance.

When That Ineffable Compound Of Depression, Sadness (these Two Are Not The Same), Anxiety, Self-hatred, Sense Of Failure And Fear For The Future Begins To Steal Over You, Start Telling Yourself That What You Have Is A Hangover. You Are Not Sickening For Anything, You Have Not Suffered A Minor Brain Lesion, You Are Not All That Bad At Your Job, Your Family And Friends Are Not Leagued In A Conspiracy Of Barely Maintained Silence About What A S**t You Are, You Have Not Come At Last To See Life As It Really Is And There Is No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk.

Sex Is A Momentary Itch, Love Never Lets You Go.

We Should Be Wrong To Demand That A Critic Must Stay On The Point All The Time; It Is Enough If He Remains In Orbit Around It.

Your Attitude Measures Up To The Two Requirements Of Love. You Want To Go To Bed With Her And Can't, And You Don't Know Her Very Well. Ignorance Of The Other Person Topped Up With Deprivation, Jim. You Fit The Formula All Right, And What's More You Want To Go On Fitting It.