By The End Of High School I

Socrates Called Himself A Midwife Of Ideas. A Great Book Is Often Such A Midwife, Delivering To Full Existence What Has Been Coiled Like An Embryo In The Dark, Silent Depths Of The Brain.

To Divide One's Life By Years Is Of Course To Tumble Into A Trap Set By Our Own Arithmetic. The Calendar Consents To Carry On Its Dull Wall-existence By The Arbitrary Timetables We Have Drawn Up In Consultation With Those Permanent Commuters, Earth And Sun. But We, Unlike Trees, Need Grow No Annual Rings.

Insomnia Is A Gross Feeder. It Will Nourish Itself On Any Kind Of Thinking, Including Thinking About Not Thinking.

Science Fiction Is A Kind Of Archaeology Of The Future.

Name Me Any Liquid — Except Our Own Blood — That Flows More Intimately And Incessantly Through The Labyrinth Of Symbols We Have Conceived To Mark Our Status As Human Beings, From The Rudest Peasant Festival To The Mystery Of The Eucharist.