Western Man Is Schizophrenic.

The Real Lost Souls Don't Wear Their Hair Long And Play Guitars. They Have Crew Cuts And Trained Minds, Sign On For Research In Biological Warfare, And Don't Give Their Parents A Moment's Worry.

But Some Of Us Are Beginning To Pull Well Away, In Our Irritation, From...the Exquisite Tasters, The Vintage Snobs, The Three-star Michelin Gourmets. There Is, We Feel, A Decent Area Somewhere Between Boiled Carrots And Beluga Caviare, Sour Plonk And Chateau Lafitte, Where We Can Take Care Of Our Gullets And Bellies Without Worshipping Them.

Sometimes You Might Think The Machines We Worship Make All The Chief Appointments, Promoting The Human Beings Who Seem Closest To Them.

There Is Romance, The Genuine Glinting Stuff, In Typewriters, And Not Merely In Their Development From Clumsy Giants Into Agile Dwarfs, But In The History Of Their Manufacture, Which Is Filled With Raids, Battles, Lonely Pioneers, Great Gambles, Hope, Fear, Despair, Triumph. If Some Of Our Novels Could Be Written By The Typewriters Instead Of On Them, How Much Better They Would Be.

Living In An Age Of Advertisement, We Are Perpetually Disillusioned.