And Through The Spaces Of The Dark

The Winter Evening Settles Down With Smell Of Steaks In Passageways. Six O'clock. The Burnt-out Ends Of Smoky Days. And Now A Gusty Shower Wraps The Grimy Scraps Of Withered Leaves About Your Feet And Newspapers From Vacant Lots; The Showers Beat On Broken Blinds And Chimney-pots, And At The Corner Of The Street A Lonely Cab-horse Steams And Stamps. And Then The Lighting Of The Lamps.

For He Will Do As He Do Do And There's No Doing Anything About It!

A Prose That Is Altogether Alive Demands Something Of The Reader That The Ordinary Novel Reader Is Not Prepared To Give.

I Have Heard The Mermaids Singing, Each To Each. I Do Not Think That They Will Sing To Me.

Those Who Say They Give The Public What It Wants Begin By Underestimating Public Taste And End By Debauching It.