And In Fact, I Think One Of

All Reined Up In Old Language And Old Assumptions, Straining To Jump Clean-hoofed On To A Whole New Track Of Being I Only Suspect Is There. I Can't See It, Because My Educated, Average Head Is Being Held At The Wrong Angle. I Can't Jump Because The Bit Forbids It, And My Own Basic Force - My Horsepower, If You Like - Is Too Little.

You Have Your Words, And I Have Mine.

Figaro Is A Bad Play. It Stirs Up Hatred Between The Classes. In France, It Has Caused Nothing But Bitterness. My Own Dear Sister,antoinette, Writes Me That She Is Beginning To Be Frightened Of Her Own People.

Watching Italian Opera, All Those Male Sopranos Screeching, Stupid Fat Couples Rolling Their Eyes About. That's Not Love, It's Just Rubbish.

Worship Isn't Destructive, Martin. I Know That. I Don't. I Only Know It's The Core Of His Life. What Else Has He Got? He Can Hardly Read. He Knows No Physics Or Engineering To Make To World Real For Him. No Paintings To Show Him How Others Have Enjoyed It. No Music Except Television Jingles. No History Except Tales From A Desperate Mother. No Friends. Not One Kid To Give Him A Joke, Or Make Him Know Himself More Moderately. He's A Modern Citizen For Whom Society Doesn't Exist.