No One Ever Hates Without A Cause.

For A Few Minutes, Maybe, Life Lingers In The Tissues Of Some Outlying Regions Of The Body. Then, One By One, The Lights Go Out And There Is Total Blackness. And Ifsome Part Of The Non—entity We Called George Has Indeed Been Absent At This Moment Of Terminal Shock, Away Out There On The Deep Water, Then It Will Return To Find Itself Homeless.

The Prefect Evening...lying Down On The Couch Beside The Bookcase And Reading Himself Sleepy...jim Lying Opposite Him At The Other End Of The Couch, Also Reading; The Two Of Them Absorbed In Their Books Yet So Completely Aware Of Each Other's Presence.

What Irritates Me Is The Bland Way People Go Around Saying, 'oh, Our Attitude Has Changed. We Don't Dislike These People Any More.' But By The Strangest Coincidence, They Haven't Taken Away The Injustice; The Laws Are Still On The Books.

Staring And Staring Into The Mirror, It Sees Many Faces Within Its Face - The Face Of The Child, The Boy, The Young Man, The Not-so-young Man - All Present Still, Preserved Like Fossils On Superimposed Layers, And, Like Fossils, Dead. Their Message To This Live Dying Creature Is: Look At Us - We Have Died - What Is There To Be Afraid Of? It Answers Them: But That Happened So Gradually, So Easily. I'm Afraid Of Being Rushed.

Hollywood's Two Polar Types Are The Cynically Drunken Writer Aggressively Nursing A Ten-year-old Reputation And The Theatrically Self-conscious Hermit Who Strides The Boulevard In Sandals, Home-made Shorts And A Prophetic Beard, Muttering Against The Age Of The Machines.