How Can A People Who Do Not

Now Working Is Terribly Painful And I'm Still Having A Fight With The Booze. I've Enlisted The Help Of A Doctor But It's Touch And Go. A Day For Me; A Day For The Hootch.

Love With Its Paraphernalia Of Sexuality, Jealousy, Nostalgia And Exaltation Was Easier To Reognize Than Friendship, Which Seemed To Have (excepting Athletic Equipment) No Paraphernalia At All.

What I Am Going To Write Is The Last Of What I Have To Say. I Will Say That Literature Is The Only Consciousness We Possess And That Its Role As Consciousness Must Inform Us Of Our Ability To Comprehend The Hideous Danger Of Nuclear Power.

We Praise Him, We Bless Him, We Adore Him, We Glorify Him, And We Wonder Who Is That Baritone Across The Aisle And That Pretty Woman On Our Right Who Smells Of Apple Blossoms. Our Bowels Stir And Our Cod Itches And We Amend Our Prayers For The Spiritual Life With The Hope That It Will Not Be Too Spiritual.

The Poet Or Storyteller Who Feels That He Is Competing With A Superb Double Play In The World Series Is A Lost Man. One Would Not Want As A Reader A Man Who Did Not Appreciate The Finesse Of A Double Play.