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It’s . . . Colder than the nipple on a witch’s tit! Colder than a bucket of penguin shit! Colder than the hairs of a polar bear’s ass! Colder than the frost on a champagne glass!
Death is a debt to nature due, Which I have paid, and so must you.
Because I could not stop for Death He kindly stopped for me
Colonies are the outhouses of the European soul, where a fellow can let his pants down and relax, enjoy the smell of his own shit.
The hand of Providence creeps among the stars, giving Slothrop the finger.
Blues is a matter of lower sidebands—you suck a clear note, on pitch, and then bend it lower with the muscles of your face. Muscles of your face have been laughing, tight with pain, often trying not to betray any emotion, all your life. Where you send the pure note is partly a function of that. There’s that secular basis for blues, if the spiritual angle bothers you. . . .
