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When I started out, all I did was play my trombone.

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William Peter Blatty

I lived in Georgetown in the late 70s about four houses down from the steps.

Four, House, Houses, Lived, Steps
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From the cab stepped a tall old man. Black raincoat and hat and a battered valise. He paid the driver, then turned and stood motionless, staring at the house. The cab pulled away and rounded the corner of Thirty-sixty Street. Kinderman quickly pulled out to follow. As he turned the corner, he noticed that the tall old man hadn't moved but was standing under the streetlight glow, in mist, like a melancholy traveler frozen in time.

Away, Black, House, Melancholy, Men, Moved

But a myth, to speak plainly, to me is like a menu in a fancy French restaurant: glamorous, complicated camouflage for a fact you wouldn't otherwise swallow, like maybe lima beans.

Beans, Camouflage, Fact, Facts, Fancy, Like

What looked like morning was the beginning of endless night

Endless, Like, Looked, Morning, Night

I have never read horror, nor do I consider The Exorcist to be such, but rather as a suspenseful supernatural detective story, or paranormal police procedural.

Detectives, Horror, Paranormal, Police, Stories, Suspenseful

Every man that ever lived craved perfect happiness, the detective poignantly reflected. But how can we have it when we know we’re going to die? Each joy was clouded by the knowledge it would end. And so nature had implanted in us a desire for something unattainable? No. It couldn’t be. It makes no sense. Every other striving implanted by nature had a corresponding object that wasn’t a phantom. Why this exception? the detective reasoned. It was nature making hunger when there wasn’t any food. We continue. We go on. Thus death proved life.

Couldnt, Hunger, Joy, Knowledge, Men, Perfect
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