A Ton Of Proust Isn’t Worth An

Medicine Was Certainly Intended To Be A Career. I Wanted To Become A Psychiatrist, An Adolescent Ambition Which, Of Course, Is Fulfilled By Many Psychiatrists.

Even One's Own Home Is A Kind Of Anthology Of Advertisers, Manufacturers, Motifs And Presentation Techniques. There's Nothing 'natural' About One's Home These Days. The Furnishings, The Fabrics, The Furniture, The Appliances, The Tv, And All The Electronic Equipment - We're Living Inside Commercials.

I Feel That, In A Sense, The Writer Knows Nothing Any Longer. He Has No Moral Stance. He Offers The Reader The Contents Of His Own Head, A Set Of Options And Imaginative Alternatives. His Role Is That Of A Scientist, Whether On Safari Or In His Laboratory, Faced With An Unknown Terrain Or Subject. All He Can Do Is To Devise Various Hypotheses And Test Them Against The Facts.

After Being Bombarded Endlessly By Road-safety Propaganda It Was Almost A Relief To Find Myself In An Actual Accident.

They Thrived On The Rapid Turnover Of Acquaintances, The Lack Of Involvement With Others, And The Total Self-sufficiency Of Lives Which, Needing Nothing, Were Never Dissapointed.