Writing on the wall: "Will trade three blind crabs for two with no teeth."
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Paradise is not a garden of bliss and changless perfection where lions lie down like lambs (what would they eat?) and the angles and cherubim and seraphim rotate in endless idiotic circles, like clockwork, about an equally inane and ludicrous - however roseate - Unmoved Mover. That particular painted fantasy of a realm beyond time and space which Aristotle and the Church Fathers tried to palm off on us has met, in modern times, only neglect and indifference, passing on into the oblivion it so richly deserved, while the Paradise of which I write and wish to praise is with us yet, the here and now, the actual, tangible, dogmatically real earth on which we stand.
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Wilderness begins in the human mind.
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Most new books drop immediately into the oblivion they so richly deserve.
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The Latino military fare badly when they stumble into war with the gringos. But in the torture, murder, and massacre of their own people, they have always performed with brilliance and elan.
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