I Write Because I Hate. A Lot.

Surely It's Better To Live In The Country, To Live On A Prairie By A Drawing Of Rivers, In Iowa Or Illinois Or Indiana, Say, Than In Any City, In Any Stinking Fog Of Human Beings, In Any Blooming Orchard Of Machines. It Ought To Be.

Freud Thought That A Psychosis Was A Waking Dream, And That Poets Were Daydreamers Too, But I Wonder If The Reverse Is Not As Often True, And That Madness Is A Fiction Lived In Like A Rented House

Sports, Politics, And Religion Are The Three Passions Of The Badly Educated.

The Alcoholic Trance Is Not Just A Haze, As Though The Eyes Were Also Unshaven. It Is Not A Mere Buzzing In The Ears, A Dizzinessor Disturbance Of Balance. One Arrives In The Garden Again, At Nursery Time, When The Gentle Animals Are Fed And In All The World There Are Only Toys.

Philosophy Has A Great Sort Of Appeal In Terms Of An Artistic Or Aesthetic Organization Of Concepts. It's A Conceptual Art.