You Can't Eat The Orange

When Irrational Terror Takes To Itself The Fiat Of Moral Goodness Somebody Has To Die. ... No Man Lives Who Has Not Got A Panic Button, And When It Is Pressed By The Clean White Hand Of Moral Duty, A Certain Murderous Train Is Set In Motion.

Well, I Spent Six Or Seven Years After High School Trying To Work Myself Up. Shipping Clerk, Salesman, Business Of One Kind Or Another. And It's A Measly Manner Of Existence. To Get On That Subway On The Hot Mornings In Summer. To Devote Your Whole Life To Keeping Stock, Or Making Phone Calls, Or Selling Or Buying. To Suffer Fifty Weeks Of The Year For The Sake Of A Two-week Vacation, When All You Really Desire Is To Be Outdoors, With Your Shirt Off. And Always To Have To Get Ahead Of The Next Fella. And Still — That's How You Build A Future.

A Play's An Interpretation. It Is Not A Report. And That Is The Beginning Of Its Poetry Because, In Order To Interpret, You Have To Distort Toward A Symbolic Construction Of What Happened, And As That Distortion Takes Place, You Begin To Leave Out And Overemphasize And Consequently Deliver Up Life As A Unity Rather Than As A Chaos, And Any Such Attempt, The More Intense It Is, The More Poetic It Becomes.

I Realized What A Ridiculous Lie My Whole Life Has Been.

It Is Time That We, Who Are Without Kings, Took Up This Bright Thread Of Our History And Followed It To The Only Place It Can Possibly Lead In Our Time-the Heart And Spirit Of The Average Man.