World of Midgets

If I came to Paris to be Henry Miller, to prove, somehow, to myself, to the world, that it is still possible to live a life of meaning, unique, free, inspired, then so far I have failed. But I have not just failed myself. There is a death wish in the air, an entire culture of death, ICBMs pointed east and west, and the sense that someday, someone, out of boredom more than anything, might just push the button and start the fireworks rolling, and nobody would even really care. There’s a cult ...