CLIFF BAR
At the moment, the world is a
foul place, getting fouler. Yes,
yes, you may call me out on that.
I have been sundered many a
relation by my ways: That poor
girl in Ohio, neither knowing
which, ranging to the Lord, and
then back between betwixt. And
those haughty ones of Princeton,
whose wise ways they wore on
doubtful sleeves. Obeisance and
duty, pretentiously always called.
I've watched Philadelphia Mainline
preachers babble on about their
this or that : Wittgenstein or Marx
or Hegel. It pays well to be that
smart?
-
The ways of the many are fruitless,
and questions are not even allowed
by the self-absorbed. I asked Cliff
once, about his new-car Volvo. he
said nothing? 'Engine? I don't know
a thing. it's just a car to me.' We were
in the little morning-alley behind the
Princeton bookstore. He was bending
over sadly, unloading boxed books.
I tried to talk, but all I got were looks.
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