There Is No Known Device For Artistic

I Write To Discover What I Think. After All, The Bars Aren't Open That Early.

Probably No One Of Us Has The True Religion. But All Of Us Together - If We Are Allowed To Be Free - Are Discovering Ways Of Conversing About The Great Mysteries. The Pretense To Know All The Answers To The Deepest Mysteries Is, Of Course, The Grossest Fraud. And Any People Who Declare A Jihad, A Holy War On Unbelievers - Those Who Do Not Share Their Believers' Pretended Omniscience - Are Enemies Of Thinking Men And Woman And Of Civilization. I See Religion As Only A Way Of Asking Unanswerable Questions, Of Sharing The Joy Of A Community Of Quest, And Solacing One Another In Our Ignorance.

Our American Past Always Speaks To Us With Two Voices: The Voice Of The Past, And The Voice Of The Present. We Are Always Asking Two Quite Different Questions. Historians Reading The Words Of John Winthrop Usually Ask, What Did They Mean To Him? Citizens Ask, What Do They Mean To Us? Historians Are Trained To Seek The Original Meaning; All Of Us Want To Know The Present Meaning.

Never Have People Been More The Masters Of Their Environment. Yet Never Has A People Felt More Deceived And Disappointed. For Never Has A People Expected So Much More Than The World Could Offer.

The Star Is The Ultimate American Verification Of Jean-jacques Rousseau's Emile. His Mere Existence Proves The Perfectability Of Any Man Or Woman. Oh Wonderful Pliability Of Human Nature, In A Society Where Anyone Can Become A Celebrity! And Where Any Celebrity . . . May Become A Star!