In Violence, We Forget Who We Are

What I Really Do Is Take Real Plums And Put Them In An Imaginary Cake. If You're Interested In The Cake, You Get Rather Annoyed With People Saying What Species The Real Plum Was.

Our Language, Once Homely And Colloquial, Seeks To Aggrandize Our Meanest Activities With Polysyllabic Terms Or It Retreats From Frankness Into A Stammering Verbosity.

It Came To Me, As We Sat There, Glumly Ordering Lunch, That For Extremely Stupid People Anti-semitism Was A Form Of Intellectuality, The Sole Form Of Intellectuality Of Which They Were Capable. It Represented, In A Rudimentary Way, The Ability To Make Categories, To Generalize.

The Horror Of Gandhi's Murder Lies Not In The Political Motives Behind It Or In Its Consequences For Indian Policy Or For The Future Of Non-violence; The Horror Lies Simply In The Fact That Any Man Could Look Into The Face Of This Extraordinary Person And Deliberately Pull A Trigger.

It Has To Be Acknowledged That In Capitalist Society, With Its Herds Of Hippies, Originality Has Become A Sort Of Fringe Benefit, A Mere Convention, Accepted Obsolescence, The Beatnik Model Being Turned In For The Hippie Model, As Though Strangely Obedient To Capitalist Laws Of Marketing.