Childhood Is A Disease - A Sickness

Sleep Is When All The Unsorted Stuff Comes Flying Out As From A Dustbin Upset In A High Wind.

Roger Stooped, Picked Up A Stone, Aimed And Threw It At Henry-threw It To Miss. The Stone, That Token Of Preposterous Time, Bounced Five Yards To Henry's Right And Fell In The Water. Roger Gathered A Handful Of Stones And Began To Throw Them. Yet There Was A Space Round Henry, Perhaps Six Yards In Diameter, Into Which He Dare Not Throw. Here, Invisible Yet Strong, Was The Taboo Of The Old Life. Round The Squatting Child Was The Protection Of Parents And School And Policemen And The Law. Roger Was Conditioned By A Civilization That Knew Nothing Of Him And Was In Ruins.

Consider A Man Riding A Bicycle. Whoever He Is, We Can Say Three Things About Him. We Know He Got On The Bicycle And Started To Move. We Know That At Some Point He Will Stop And Get Off. Most Important Of All, We Know That If At Any Point Between The Beginning And The End Of His Journey He Stops Moving And Does Not Get Off The Bicycle He Will Fall Off It. That Is A Metaphor For The Journey Through Life Of Any Living Thing, And I Think Of Any Society Of Living Things.

Novelists Do Not Write As Birds Sing, By The Push Of Nature. It Is Part Of The Job That There Should Be Much Routine And Some Daily Stuff On The Level Of Carpentry.

I Began To See What People Were Capable Of Doing. Anyone Who Moved Through Those Years Without Understanding That Man Produces Evil As A Bee Produces Honey, Must Have Been Blind Or Wrong In The Head.