She Was An Artist. She Held Opposites

Construed As Turf, Home Just Seems A Provisional Claim, A Designation You Make Upon A Place, Not One It Makes On You. A Certain Set Of Buildings, A Glimpsed, Smudged Window-view Across A Schoolyard, A Musty Aroma Sniffed Behind A Garage When You Were A Child, All Of Which Come Crowding In Upon Your Latter-day Senses -- Those Are Pungent Things And Vivid, Even Consoling. But To Me They Are Also Inert And Nostalgic And Unlikely To Connect You To The Real, To That Essence Art Can Sometimes Achieve, Which Is Permanence.

Someone Wanted Me To Write A Profile For Espn About The Commissioner Of Baseball, And I Said, "he's Just Some Suit! Some Republican. No!" I Mean If You Want Me To Write About Baseball, Boxing Or Football, I'll Write About Those Things Because I Watch Them, I Think About Them A Lot And I Like Them. But I Don't Want To Write About Barry Bonds.

We're All Hoping That Trump Doesn't Get Our World On His Terms Because There Won't Be Anything Of It Left. Trump Is A True Psychopath, A Psychopath In The Way That Tragedy Becomes Tragedy.

The Past Is The Prism Through Which We See A Great, Great, Great Deal Of Ourselves; It's A Useful Prism. It Doesn't Mean That We're Fascinated By The Dead Or That We're Fascinated By Things That Are Settled. It Is Just One Place Where We Can Go To Understand Ourselves In The Present.

If Trump Was Just A Piddly-ass Little Hotel Owner Some Place, Having The Kind Of Character And Manners That He Has, He Would Not Be Worth Our Notice. But Because He's Now Been Based To This Huge Stage, Then His Dimensions Become Immense. He's Not A Tragic Figure Because He Doesn't Have The Capacity To Be Tragic. But The Consequences Of His Life And His Self Now Are Immense; They're Threatening To The World And To The Sanctity Of Human Life.