In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.

Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.

And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.

Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.

The world is absolutely out of control now and is not going to be saved by any reason or unreason.

I want to apologize for plaguing you with so many telephone calls last November and December. When the 'enthusiasm' is coming on me it is accompanied by a feverish reaching out to my friends. After its over I wince and wither.

Talking about the past is like a cat's trying to explain climbing down a ladder.