[b]Malcolm Lowry
In the war to come correspondents would assume unheard of importance, plunging through flame to feed the public its little gobbets of dehydrated excrement.[/b]
Not quite bread and circuses, perhaps, but certainly headed in that general direction.
Not that it was not a nightmare. It was, but of a very special kind he was scarcely old enough to appreciate.
I’ll bet he’s old enough now.
It’s amazing when you come to think of it how the human spirit seems to blossom in the shadow of the abattoir!
And few beasts [including occasionally ourselves] seem to be exmpt.
Every man must ceaselessly struggle upwards. What was life but a warfare and a stranger’s sojourn?
And now every woman. Or, for that matter, every transgender.
Hell, he finished absurdly. Because…He produced a twenty-peso note and laid it on the table. I like it, he called to them, through the open window, from outside. Cervantes stood behind the bar, with scared eyes, holding the cockerel. I love hell. I can’t wait to get back there. In fact I’m running, I’m almost back there already.
Perhaps there’s two of them.
In Arizona, a 1000-acre forest of junipers suddenly withered and died. Foresters are unable to explain it, but the Indians say the trees died of fear but they are not in agreement as to what caused the fright.
Insects probably.