It is not in the nature of man -- nor of any living entity --- to start out by giving up, by spitting in one's own face and damning existence; that requires a process of corruption whose rapidity differs from man to man. Some give up at the first touch of pressure; some sell out; some run down by imperceptible degrees and lose their fire, never knowing when or how they lost it. Then all of these vanish in the vast swamp of their elders who tell them persistently that maturity consists of abandoning one's mind; security, of abandoning one's values; practicality, of losing self-esteem. Yet a few hold on and move on, knowing that that fire is not to be betrayed, learning how to give it shape, purpose and reality. But whatever their future, at the dawn of their lives, men seek a noble vision of man's nature and of life's potential.

I know I don't. But thats what you believe, isn't it ? Now take a human body. Why would'nt you like to see a human body with a curling tail with a crest of ostrich feathers at the end? And with ears shaped like acanthus leaves? It would be ornamantal, you know, instead of the stark, bare ugliness we have now. Well, why don't you like the idea? Because it would be useless and pointless. Because the beauty of the human body is that it hasn't a single muscle which doesn't serve its purpose; that there's not a line wasted; that every detail of it fits one idea, the idea of a man and the life of a man. Will you tell me why, when it comes to a building, you don't want it to look as if it had any sense or purpose, you want to choke it with trimmings, you want to sacrifice its purpose to its envelope -- not knowing even why you want that kind of an envelope? You want it to look like a hybrid beast creature without guts, without heart or brain, a creatue all pelt, tail, claws and feathers? Why? You must tell me, because I've never been able to understand it."

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"Howard, I had a kitten once. The damn thing attached itself to me -- a flea-bitten little beast from the gutter, just fur, mud and bones -- followed me home, I fed it and kicked it out, but the next day there it was again, and finally I kept it. I was seventeen then, working for the Gazette, just learning to work in the special way I had to learn for life. I could take it all right, but not all of it. There were times when it was pretty bad. Evenings, usually. Once I wanted to kill myself. Not anger -- anger made me work harder. Not fear. But disgust, Howard. The kind of disgust that made it seem as if the whole world were under water and the water stood still, water that had backed up out of the sewers and ate into everything, even the sky, even my brain. And then I looked at that kitten. And I thought that it didn't know the things I loathed, it could never know. It was clean -- clean in the absolute sense,because it had no capacity to conceive of the world's ugliness. I can't tell you what relief there was in trying to imagine the state of consciousness inside that little brain, trying to share it, a living consciousness, but clean and free. I would lie down on the floor and put my face on that cat's belly and hear the beast purring. And then i would feel better... There, Howard. I've called your ofice a rotting wharf and yourself and alley cat. That's my way of paying homage.

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I was thinking of people who say that happiness is impossible on earth. Look how hard they all try to find some joy in life. Look how they struggle for it. Why should any living creature exist in pain? By what conceivable right can anyone demand that a human being exist for anything but for his own joy? Every one of them wants it. Everypart of him wants it. But they never find it. I wonder why. They whine and say they dont understand the meaning of life. There's a particular kind of people that I despise. Those who seek some sort of a higher purpose or universal goal, who dont know what to live for, who moan that they must 'find themselves'. You hear it all around us. That seems to be the official bromide of our century. Every book you open, Every drooling self-confession. It seems to be the noble thing to confess. I'd think it would be the most shameful one.

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I like to receive money for my work. But I can pass that up this time. I like to have people know my work is dont by me. But I can pass that up. I like to have tenants made happy by my work. But that doesnt matter too much. The only thing that matters, my goal, my reward, my beginning, my end is the work itself. My work done my way, Peter, there's nothing in the world that you can offer me, except this. Offer me this and you can have anything I've got to give. My work done my way. A private, personal, selfish, egotistical motivation. That's the only way I function. That's all I am.

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