Is It Permitted To Differ With Kierkegaard?

Painters, Especially American Painters Since The Second World War, Have Been Much More Troubled, Beset By Formal Perplexity, Than American Writers. Theyve Been A Laboratory For Everybody.

I Think Writers Like Old Cities And Are Made Very Nervous By New Cities.

Is Death That Which Gives Meaning To Life? And I Said, No, Life Is That Which Gives Meaning To Life.

The World Is Sagging, Snagging, Scaling, Spalling, Pilling, Pinging, Pitting, Warping, Checking, Fading, Chipping, Cracking, Yellowing, Leaking, Stalling, Shrinking, And In Dynamic Unbalance.

--why Are We Fighting Them? --they're Mad. We're Sane. --how Do We Know? --that We're Sane? --yes. --am I Sane? --to All Appearances. --and You, Do You Consider Yourself Sane? --i Do. --well, There You Have It. --but Don't They Also Consider Themselves Sane? --i Think They Know. Deep Down. That They're Not Sane. --how Must That Make Them Feel? --terrible, I Should Think. They Must Fight Ever More Fiercely, In Order To Deny What They Know To Be True. That They Are Not Sane.