No One Ever Hates Without A Cause.

I'm Very Militant, You Know, In A Quite Way.

The Past Is Just Something That's Over.

The Landscape, Like Los Angeles Itself, Is Transitional. Impermanence Haunts The City, With Its Mushroom Industries--the Aircraft Perpetually Becoming Obsolete, The Oil Which Must One Day Be Exhausted, The Movies Which Fill America's Theatres For Six Months And Are Forgotten. Many Of Its Houses--especially The Grander Ones--have A Curiously Disturbing Atmosphere, A Kind Of Psychological Dankness Which Smells Of Anxiety, Overdrafts, Uneasy Lust, Whisky, Divorce And Lies.

She Is Sighing Deeply Now With Sympathy And Delight - The Delight Of An Addict When Someone Else Admits He's Hooked, Too.

I Am Alive, He Says To Himself, I Am Alive! And Life Energy Surges Hotly Through Him, And Delight, And Appetite. How Good To Be In A Body - Even This Old Beat-up Carcass - That Still Has Warm Blood And Live Semen And Rich Marrow And Wholesome Flesh!