I Have No Mouth. And I Must

It Is A Love/hate Relationship I Have With The Human Race. I Am An Elitist, And I Feel That My Responsibility Is To Drag The Human Race Along With Me, That I Will Never Pander To, Or Speak Down To, Or Play The Safe Game.

Y Is For Yggdrasil. The Legendary Nordic Ash Tree With Its Three Roots Extending Into The Lands Of Mortals, Giants, And Niflheim, The Land Of Mist, Grows In Wisconsin. Legend Has It That When The Tree Falls, The Universe Will Fall. Next Wednesday, The State Highway Commission Comes Through That Empty Pasture With A Freeway.

People Don't Die From The Old Diseases Any More. They Die From New Ones, But That's Progress, Isn't It? Isn't It?

It Is Not Merely Enough To Love Literature If One Wishes To Spend One's Life As A Writer. It Is A Dangerous Undertaking On The Most Primitive Level. For, It Seems To Me, The Act Of Writing With Serious Intent Involves Enormous Personal Risk. It Entails The Ongoing Courage For Self-discovery. It Means One Will Walk Forever On The Tightrope, With Each New Step Presenting The Possiblity Of Learning A Truth About Oneself That Is Too Terrible To Bear.

I Have But Nothing To Say To Young Girls. They're Fine To Look At, In The Way I Would Look At A Case Filled With Shang Dynasty Glazes, But Expecting To Carry On A Conversation With The Average Teen-aged Young Lady Is Akin To Reading Voltaire To A Cage Filled With Chimpanzees. I'm Certain They Would Feel The Same Alienation For Me. I Can Live With That Knowledge.