It Is Not A Fragrant World.

You Can Always Tell A Detective On Tv. He Never Takes His Hat Off.

The Overall Picture, As The Boys Say, Is Of A Degraded Community Whose Idealism Even Is Largely Fake. The Pretentiousness, The Bogus Enthusiasm, The Constant Drinking, The Incessant Squabbling Over Money, The All-pervasive Agent, The Strutting Of The Big Shots (and Their Usually Utter Incompetence To Achieve Anything They Start Out To Do), The Constant Fear Of Losing All This Fairy Gold And Being The Nothing They Have Never Ceased To Be, The Snide Tricks, The Whole Damn Mess Is Out Of This World.

When A Book, Any Sort Of Book, Reaches A Certain Intensity Of Artistic Performance It Becomes Literature.

The Agent Never Receipts His Bill, Puts His Hat On And Bows Himself Out. He Stays Around Forever, Not Only For As Long As You Can Write Anything That Anyone Will Buy, But As Long As Anyone Will Buy Any Portion Of Any Right To Anything That You Ever Did Write. He Just Takes Ten Per Cent Of Your Life.

So By All Means Let's Have A Television Show Quick And Long, Even If The Commercial Has To Be Delivered By A Man In A White Coat With A Stethoscope Hanging Around His Neck, Selling Ergot Pills. After All The Public Is Entitled To What It Wants, Isn't It? The Romans Knew That And Even They Lasted Four Hundred Years After They Started To Putrefy.