Today I Know That All Things Are

And When The Sun Goes Down And The Mood Comes Upon Me, I'll Watch The Play Of The Colors On The Water, Yield To The Fleetly Dissolving Images, And Turn Into Pure Feeling, All Soft And Nice.

What Makes Books - And With Them Writers - So Dangerous That Church And State, Politburos And The Mass Media Feel The Need To Oppose Them?

Writers Know That Sometimes Things Are There In The Drawer For Decades Before They Finally Come Out And You Are Capable Of Writing About Them.

If Work And Leisure Are Soon To Be Subordinated To This One Utopian Principle - Absolute Busyness - Then Utopia And Melancholy Will Come To Coincide: An Age Without Conflict Will Dawn, Perpetually Busy - And Without Consciousness.

The Human Head Is Bigger Than The Globe. It Conceives Itself As Containing More. It Can Think And Rethink Itself And Ourselves From Any Desired Point Outside The Gravitational Pull Of The Earth. It Starts By Writing One Thing And Later Reads Itself As Something Else. The Human Head Is Monstrous.