Click, Clack, Click, Clack, Went Their Conversation,

Violence, Passion, Indignation, Loyalty, Integrity, Incorruptibility, Shameless Egoism, Generosity, Excitability, Energy, A Hundred Horse-power Drive - None Of It Very Subtle: Ethel [smyth] Didn't Deal In Pastel Shades, She Went For The Stronger Colors, The Blood-red, Anything Deep And Pumping Out Of The Arteries Of The Heart.

Prose Is A Poor Thing, A Poor Inadequate Thing, Compared With Poetry Which Says So Much More In Shorter Time.

I Have Come To The Conclusion, After Many Years Of Sometimes Sad Experience, That You Cannot Come To Any Conclusion At All.

I Like Owls. I Admire Their Intransigent Spirit. I Have Respected Them Deeply Ever Since I Met A Baby Owl In A Wood, When It Fell Over Dead, Apparently From Sheer Temper, Because I Dared To Approach It. It Defied Me First, And Then Died. I Have Never Forgotten The Horror And Shame I Experienced When That Soft Fluffy Thing (towards Which I Had Nothing But The Most Humanitarian Motives) Fell Dead From Rage At My Feet.

Travel Is A Private Pleasure, Since It Consists Entirely Of Things Felt And Things Seen.