The axiom of conditioned repetition, like the binomial theorem, is nothing but a piece of insolence.

John Updike: our greatest suburban chic-boutique man of letters. A smug and fatal complacency has stunted his growth beyond hope of surgical repair. Not enough passion in his collected works to generate steam in a beer can. Nevertheless, he is considered by some critics to be America's finest *living* author: Hold a chilled mirror to his lips and you will see, presently, a fine and dewy moisture condensing -- like a faery breath! -- upon the glass.

In the end, for all our differences and conflicts, most women and men share the same food, work, shelter, bed, life, joy, anguish, and fate. We need each other.

Recorded history is largely an account of the crimes and disasters committed by banal little men at the levers of imperial machines.

Lightning streaks like gunfire through the clouds, volleys of thunder shake the air.

Jack Kerouac, like a sick refrigerator, worked too hard at keeping cool and died on his mama's lap from alcohol and infantilism.

Only a fool is astonished by the foolishness of mankind.