All pleasantries ought to be short, and, for that matter, gravities too!
Judging by the expression on the faces of those who confront me after having read these columns out of Zebulun, I must resign myself to being considered as a man who does little more than cherish a few quixotries—as one who is slightly mad and who has strayed from the ordered paths of clinical medicine into a far country. So be it. My retort is that given the hypothesis of a world gone corporately mad (an inescapable conclusion in these days), the only remaining sanity is our individual consciousness of the corporate madness. And to lighten that consciousness, to provide munitions of fortitude, and to build a sanctuary in which one may absorb his melancholy, it is necessary on occasion to take shelter in one's own real world, the world that every one of us carries