I Am Nobody But Myself.

And While The Ice Was Melting To Form A Flood In Which I Threatened To Drown I Awoke One Afternoon To Find That My First Northern Winter Had Set.

Some People Are Your Relatives But Others Are Your Ancestors, And You Choose The Ones You Want To Have As Ancestors. You Create Yourself Out Of Those Values.

So Why Do I Write, Torturing Myself To Put It Down? Because In Spite Of Myself I've Learned Some Things. Without The Possibility Of Action, All Knowledge Comes To One Labeled "file And Forget," And I Can Neither File Nor Forget. Nor Will Certain Ideas Forget Me; They Keep Filing Away At My Lethargy, My Complacency. Why Should I Be The One To Dream This Nightmare?

The Blues Is An Art Of Ambiguity, An Assertion Of The Irrepressibly Human Over All Circumstances, Whether Created By Others Or By One's Own Human Failing.

America Is Woven Of Many Strands. I Would Recognise Them And Let It So Remain. Our Fate Is To Become One, And Yet Many. This Is Not Prophecy, But Description.