Readers of the twenty-first chapter must decide for themselves whether it enhances the book they presumably know or is really a discardable limb. I meant the book to end in this way, but my aesthetic judgement may have been faulty. Writers are rarely their own best critics, nor are critics. 'Quod scripsi scripsi' said Pontius Pilate when he made Jesus Christ the King of the Jews. 'What I have written I have Written.' We can destroy what we have written but we cannot unwrite it. I leave what I wrote with what Dr. Johnson called frigid indifference to the judgement of that .00000001 of the American population which cares about such things. Eat this sweetish segment or spit it out. You are free.
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Another time I go outside Into the world. It rocks on and on. It was rocking before I saw it And is presumably doing so still.
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Despair has been called the unforgivable sin--not presumably because God refuses to forgive it but because it despairs of the possibility of being forgiven.
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Meat is murder. Fish is justifiable ichthyocide.
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If the aborigine drafted an IQ test, all of Western civilization would presumably flunk it.
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Where there is reverence there is fear, but there is not reverence everywhere that there is fear, because fear presumably has a wider extension than reverence.
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