Bright Was The Light Of My Last

We Are In Love With The Word. We Are Proud Of It. The Word Precedes The Formation Of The State. The Word Comes To Us From Every Avatar Of Early Human Existence. As Writers, We Are Obliged More Than Others To Keep Our Lives Attached To The Primitive Power Of The Word. From India, Out Of The Vedas, We Still Hear: On The Spoken Word, All The Gods Depend, All Beasts And Men; In The World Live All Creatures...the Word Is The Name Of The Divine World.

The Barry Goldwater Movement Excited The Depths Because The Apocalypse Was Brought More Near, And Like Millions Of Other Whites, I Had Been Leading A Life Which Was A Trifle Too Pointless And A Trifle Too Full Of Guilt And My Gullet Was Close To Nausea With The Empty Promises Of An Empty Liberal Center.

We Are All So Guilty At The Way We Have Allowed The World Around Us To Become More Ugly And Tasteless Every Year That We Surrender To Terror And Steep Ourselves In It.

Love Asks Us That We Be A Little Braver Than Is Comfortable, A Little More Generous, A Little More Flexible. It Means Living On The Edge More Than We Care To.

The Sense Of A Long Last Night Over Civilization Is Back Again.