I Sometimes Wish Desperately That I Could

When The Storm Is Over And Night Falls And The Moon Is Out In All Its Glory And All You're Left With Is The Rhythm Of The Sea, Of The Waves, You Know What God Intended For The Human Race, You Know What Paradise Is.

Isn't It True That Every Aristocrat Wants To Die?

Language In Art Remains A Highly Ambiguous Transaction, A Quicksand, A Trampoline, A Frozen Pool Which Might Give Way Under You ... At Any Time.

I Think That Nato Is Itself A War Criminal.

Do The Structures Of Language And The Structures Of Reality (by Which I Mean What Actually Happens) Move Along Parallel Lines? Does Reality Essentially Remain Outside Language, Separate, Obdurate, Alien, Not Susceptible To Description? Is An Accurate And Vital Correspondence Between What Is And Our Perception Of It Impossible? Or Is It That We Are Obliged To Use Language Only In Order To Obscure And Distort Reality -- To Distort What Happens -- Because We Fear It?