Anyone Who Knows Of A Provable Instance

It Was A Bright Cold Day In April, And The Clocks Were Striking Thirteen.

There Is A Minority Of Gifted, Willfuf People Who Are Determined To Live Their Own Lives To The End, And Writers Belong In This Class.

Looking At The World As A Whole, The Drift For Many Decades Has Been Not Towards Anarchy But Towards The Reimposition Of Slavery. We May Be Heading Not For General Breakdown But For An Epoch As Horribly Stable As The Slave Empires Of Antiquity.

The Communism Of The English Intellectual Is Something Explicable Enough. It Is The Patriotism Of The Deracinated.

There Is No Test Of Literary Merit Except Survival, Which Is Itself An Index To Majority Opinion.