I Would Rather Be A Superb Meteor,

As For The Primitive, I Hark Back To It Because We Are Still Very Primitive. How Many Thousands Of Years Of Culture, Think You, Have Rubbed And Polished At Our Raw Edges? One Probably; At The Best, No More Than Two. And That Takes Us Back To Screaming Savagery, When, Gross Of Body And Deed, We Drank Blood From The Skulls Of Our Enemies, And Hailed As Highest Paradise The Orgies And Carnage Of Valhalla.

I Was Jealous; Therefore I Loved.

A Vast Silence Reigned Over The Land. The Land Itself Was A Desolation, Lifeless, Without Movement, So Lone And Cold That The Spirit Of It Was Not Even That Of Sadness. There Was A Hint In It Of Laughter, But Of Laughter More Terrible Than Any Sadness-a Laughter That Was Mirthless As The Smile Of The Sphinx, A Laughter Cold As The Frost And Partaking Of The Grimness Of Infallibility. It Was The Masterful And Incommunicable Wisdom Of Eternity Laughing At The Futility Of Life And The Effort Of Life. It Was The Wild, The Savage, Frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

The Grapes On A Score Of Rolling Hills Are Red With Autumn Flame. Across Sonoma Mountain Wisps Of Sea Fog Are Stealing. The Afternoon Sun Smoulders In The Drowsy Sky. I Have Everything To Make Me Glad I Am Alive. I Am Filled With Dreams And Mysteries. I Am All Sun And Air And Sparkle. I Am Vitalized, Organic.

I Am First Of All A White Man, And Only Then A Socialist.