At One With The One, It Didn't

We Forget Very Easily What Gives Us Pain.

Nobody Here Could Ever Talk About A Heaven On Earth. Heaven Remained Rigidly In Its Proper Place On The Other Side Of Death, And On This Side Flourished The Injustices, The Cruelties, The Meanness That Elsewhere People So Cleverly Hushed Up. Here You Could Love Human Beings Nearly As God Loved Them, Knowing The Worst: You Didn't Love A Pose, A Pretty Dress, A Sentiment Artfully Assumed.

Destruction After All Is A Form Of Creation.

That Instinct For Human Character That Is Perhaps Inherent In An Imaginative Writer.

Innocence Is A Kind Of Insanity