About one year earlier, in the 1993 edition of the first, wildly bestselling Chicken Soup For The Soul , there is an O.J. Simpson anecdote told by Dan Clark. That story is suppose to be chicken soup, but it tastes more like chicken poop. My soul can't help asking whether O.J. embraced that same mantra with respect to Nicole. The story does not teach me which goals to set or which goals to reject, or why. I need more for my soul than that.
Most people do too.
For the authors of such dribble, no mercy. Entombed within is a vast library of self-help books with their shivering authors chained to great wooden tables. Their screams of anguish delight the grey-blue, putrid, fanged, drooling, lisping demons eternally tormenting their wards by reciting aloud 'profound' passages from their works. Moore, a former Catholic monk, is absolutely silent on the possibility of the soul's transcendence. Limiting his discussion to tending to the soul's material needs here and now is like the Titanic passenger concentrating on the appropriate wine selection to go with dinner despite the tilting table and sliding food.