See The Moon? It Hates Us.

It Is Difficult To Keep The Public Interested. The Public Demands New Wonders Piled On New Wonders. Often We Don't Know Where Our Next Marvel Is Coming From. The Supply Of Strange Ideas Is Not Endless.

Art Is Not Difficult Because It Wishes To Be Difficult, But Because It Wishes To Be Art.

The Privileged Classes Can Afford Psychoanalysis And Whiskey. Whereas All We Get Is Sermons And Sour Wine. This Is Manifestly Unfair. I Protest, Silently.

"i Smell Fennel," Launcelot Said. "that Reminds Me, I Should Tell You I Have Discovered A Specific For Maims. You Take Salt, Good-quality River Mud, And Bee Urine, And Slather It On The Maim And Hold It There For Two Days. Works Like A Charm. Gathering The Bee Urine Is A Bit Of A Bore."

Now, Here Is The Point About The Self: It Is Insatiable. It Is Always, Always Hankering. It Is What You Might Call Rapacious To A Fault. The Great Flaming Mouth To The Thing Is Never In This World Going To Be Stuff Full.