In A One-party System There Is Always

Life In Anaheim, California, Was A Commercial For Itself, Endlessly Replayed. Nothing Changed; It Just Spread Out Farther And Farther In The Form Of Neon Ooze. What There Was Always More Of Had Been Congealed Into Permanence Long Ago, As If The Automatic Factory That Cranked Out These Objects Had Jammed In The On Position.

Unless We Can Psychologically Accommodate Change, We Ourselves Begin To Die, Inwardly. What I Am Saying Is That Objects, Customs, Habits, And Ways Of Life Must Perish So That The Authentic Human Being Can Live. And It Is The Authentic Human Being Who Matters Most, The Viable, Elastic Organism Which Can Bounce Back, Absorb, And Deal With The New.

And Of Course, In My Writing, There Is The Constant Theme Of Music, Love Of, Preoccupation With, Music. Music Is The Single Thread Making My Life Into A Coherency.

The Tragedy In His Life Already Existed. To Love An Atmospheric Spirit. That Was The Real Sorrow. Hopelessness Itself. Nowhere On The Printed Page, Nowhere In The Annals Of Man, Would Her Name Appear: No Local Habitation, No Name. There Are Girls Like That, He Thought, And Those You Love Most, The Ones Where There Is No Hope Because It Has Eluded You At The Very Moment You Close Your Hands Around It.

So Books Are Real To Me, Too; They Link Me Not Just With Other Minds But With The Vision Of Other Minds, What Those Minds Understand And See. I See Their Worlds As Well As I See My Own.