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Life And Death In Celluoid

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  I do nothing but worry. I rush into things. I cannot stay focused. I have very bad memories. Dilemma: A situation in which a difficult choice has to be made between two or more alternatives, especially equally undesirable ones. Logic is all nonsense to me. I have always felt trapped and redundant. I find socializing a strain. The days blend into months and become years. The world is a fearful place and I am alone. I am always being singled out. Having proved myself I lose interest in any project. My artwork is the same thing over and over again.. . ...as are my dreams. I think I'm perfect in every way... ...yet my sins are always here to stay. There is no escape in this life or the next. Between the motion and the act Falls the Shadow I recommend ...
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A Little Turn Upon The Screw

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He's always in by Eight A.M. and working on his Greek And all alone he sweats away week after busy week. The workload hasn't shrunk a bit, and he thinks he's a laggard. But if he's always slovenly, then why's he always haggard? A little turn upon the screw, there's always more that you could do. Success or failure turn on you, you're never ever nearly through. Day in and out you'll find him there with sore and burning eyes. He's getting much of it all wrong, no matter what he tries. And if he fails when failures count, all of it comes to nought, And absolutely nothing is what all that labor's bought. A little turn upon the screw, complaints are of no use to you, They waste your time to study, too, you're never ever nearly through. His back is sore from hunching as he puzzles out old print And spots swim past his vision, and it does no good to squint. His buttocks chafe from sitting in an unforgiving chair As he works on for hours when no...
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The Weapon Shop

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THE VILLAGE at night made a curiously timeless picture. Fara walked contentedly beside his wife along the street. The air was like wine; and he was thinking dimly of the artist who had come up from Imperial City, and made what the telestats called—he remembered the phrase vividly—" a symbolic painting reminiscent of a scene in the electrical age of seven thousand years ago." Fara believed that utterly. The street before him with its weedless, automatically tended gardens, its shops set well back among the flowers, its perpetual hard, grassy sidewalks, and its street lamps that glowed from every pore of their structure—this was a restful paradise where time had stood still. And it was like being a part of life that the great artist’s picture of this quiet, peaceful scene before him was now in the collection of the empress herself. She had praised it, and naturally the thrice-blest artist had immediately and humbly begged her to accept it. What a joy it must be to be able to of...
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