In An Oppressive Society The Truth-telling Nature

Life Is Like Invading Russia. A Blitz Start, Massed Shakos, Plumes Dancing Like A Flustered Henhouse; A Period Of Svelte Progress Recorded In Ebullient Despatches As The Enemy Falls Back; Then The Beginning Of A Long, Morale-sapping Trudge With Rations Getting Shorter And The First Snowflakes Upon Your Face. The Enemy Burns Moscow And You Yield To General January, Whose Fingernails Are Very Icicles. Bitter Retreat. Harrying Cossacks. Eventually You Fall Beneath A Boy-gunner's Grapeshot While Crossing Some Polish River Not Even Marked On Your General's Map.

If You Remember Your Past Too Well You Start Blaming Your Present For It. Look What They Did To Me, That's What Caused Me To Be Like This, It's Not My Fault. Permit Me To Correct You: It Probably Is Your Fault. And Kindly Spare Me The Details.

The Rainbow In Place Of The Unicorn? Why Didn't God Just Restore The Unicorn? We Animals Would Have Been Happier With That, Instead Of A Big Hint In The Sky About God's Magnanimity Every Time It Stopped Raining.

As I've Explained To My Wife Many Times, You Have To Kill Your Wife Or Mistress To Get On The Front Page Of The Papers.

We Thought We Were Being Mature When We Were Only Being Safe. We Imagined We Were Being Responsible But Were Only Being Cowardly. What We Called Realism Turned Out To Be A Way Of Avoiding Things Rather Than Facing Them.