Time was a film run backward. Suns fled and ten million moons fled after them.

How to feel your way toward something honest, hidden under the trapdoor on the top of your skull.

So few want to be rebels anymore. And out of those few, most, like myself, scare easily.

They whispered to Caesar that he was mortal, then sold daggers at half-price in the grand March sale.

The television is 'real'. It is immediate, it has dimension. It tells you what to think and blasts it in. It must be right. It seems so right. It rushes you on so quickly to its own conclusions your mind hasn't time to protest, 'What nonsense!'.

How men envy and often hate these warm clocks, these wives, who know they will live forever. So what do we do? We men turn terribly mean, because we can't hold to the world or ourselves or anything. We are blind to continuity, all breaks down, falls, melts, stops, rots, or runs away. So, since we cannot shape Time, where does that leave men? Sleepless. Staring.

I felt a bit bookish, cut off from life.