Laughter on American television has taken the place of the chorus in G >>
Neither dead nor alive, the hostage is suspended by an incalculable ou >>
The local is a shabby thing. There's nothing worse than bringing us ba >>
My generation of the Sixties, with all our great ideals, destroyed lib >>
All that Swinging Sixties nonsense, we all thought it was passé at th >>
We were that generation called silent, but we were silent neither, as >>
As the end of the century approaches, all our culture is like the culture of flies at the beginning of winter. Having lost their agility, dreamy and demented, they turn slowly about the window in the first icy mists of morning. They give themselves a last wash and brush-up, their oscillated eyes roll, and they fall down the curtains.