Abstract
EVEN Whatever I have to say there is no reason to believe me. That is a good start even with the moon trying to cancel out the light of the stars and myself standing outside in the dark hammering at the wind with my two fists but failing to slow it down. My willpower, though perhaps faultless, is futile when it comes to determining even my own thoughts let alone the wind-chill index on. one particular night. I try to persuade myself to lay my dissatisfactions beneath my pillow like invisible gnomes and sleep them off, for within a few hours of darkness the world itself might disappear. But I keep becoming addicted to things that are largely improbable. Let us say, in other words, that everything is possible and one grows up truly believing oneself though the world is everywhere flashing the neon of articulate signals saying otherwise like a jealous God. JACK LINDEMAN 204VOL. 34, NO. 4 (FALL 1980) ...
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