A Story Is Like Something You Wind

The Very Thing About People That Makes The Human Race Interesting Is Also The Thing That Makes It So Hard To Get Anything Done Without The Most Horrible Confusions: No Two People Think Exactly The Same Way About Anything.

The Arts Do Live Continuously, And They Live Literally By Faith; Their Names And Their Shapes And Their Uses And Their Basic Meanings Survive Unchanged In All That Matters Through Times Of Interruption, Diminishment, Neglect; They Outlive Governments And Creeds And The Societies, Even The Very Civilization That Produced Them. They Cannot Be Destroyed Altogether Because They Represent The Substance Of Faith And The Only Reality. They Are What We Find Again When The Ruins Are Cleared Away.

The Human Heart Is Not Yet So Corroded That It Can Read Off The Extinction Of These Two Men Without A Shock To The Very Roots Of Its Belief In Justice And Humanity.

They Had Both Noticed That A Life Of Dissipation Sometimes Gave To A Face The Look Of Gaunt Suffering Spirituality That A Life Of Asceticism Was Supposed To Give And Quite Often Did Not.

You Can't Write About People Out Of Textbooks, And You Can't Use Jargon. You Have To Speak Clearly And Simply And Purely In A Language That A Six-year-old Child Can Understand; And Yet Have The Meanings And The Overtones Of Language, And The Implications, That Appeal To The Highest Intelligence.