Free people have a serious problem with place, being in a place, using up a place, deciding which new place to rotate to. Americans ricochet around the United States like billiard balls.
Jews wait for the Lord, Protestants sing hymns to him, Catholics say mass and eat him.
If poets often commit suicide, it is not because their poems are bad but because they are good. Whoever heard of a bad poet committing suicide? The reader is only a little better off. The exhilaration of a good poem lasts twenty minutes, an hour at most. Unlike the scientist, the artist has reentry problems that are frequent and catastrophic.
The present age is demented. It is possessed by a sense of dislocation, a loss of personal identity, an alternating sentimentality and rage which, in an individual patient, could be characterized as dementia.
Hatred strikes me as one of the few signs of life remaining in the world. This is another thing about the world which is upsidedown: all the friendly and likable people seem dead to me; only the haters seem alive.
Before, I wandered as a diversion. Now I wander seriously and sit and read as a diversion.
You can get all A's and still flunk life.
Home may be where the heart is but it's no place to spend Wednesday afternoon.
In a word, the consumer of mass culture is lonely, not only lonely, but spiritually impoverished.
Bourbon does for me what the piece of cake did for Proust.
Last Update: 25 September 2022
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