A Novelist Is An Elephant, But An

The Return To A Favorite Novel Is Generally Tied Up With Changes In Oneself That Must Be Counted As Improvements, But Have The Feel Of Losses. It Is Like Going Back To A Favorite House, Country, Person; Nothing Is Where It Belongs, Including One's Heart.

The Dictator Is Also The Scapegoat; In Assuming Absolute Authority, He Assumes Absolute Guilt; And The Oppressed Masses, Groaning Under The Yoke, Know Themselves To Be Innocent As Lambs, While They Pray Hypocritically For Deliverance.

The Furniture And Trappings In The Apartment Are All In A State Of Flux - Here Today, Gone Tomorrow. Nothing Is Anchored To Its Place, Not Even The Coffee-pot, Which Floats Off And Returns, On The Tide Of The Signora's Marine Nature.

The Consumer Today Is The Victim Of The Manufacturer Who Launches On Him A Regiment Of Products For Which He Must Make Room In His Soul.

Venice, As A City, Was A Foundling, Floating Upon The Waters Like Moses In His Basket Among The Bulrushes.