Don't Go Fighting Against The Spring.

Railway Termini Are Our Gates To The Glorious And The Unknown

We Are All Like Scheherazade's Husband, In That We Want To Know What Happens Next.

Not Only In Sex, But In All Things Men Have Moved Blindly, Have Evolved Out Of Slime To Dissolve Into It When This Accident Of Consequences Is Over.

There Was Something Better In Life Than This Rub­bish, If Only He Could Get To It—love—nobility—big Spaces Where Passion Clasped Peace, Spaces No Science Could Reach, But They Existed For Ever, Full Of Woods Some Of Them, And Arched With Majestic Sky And A Friend. . .

There Are Occasions When I Would Rather Feel Like A Fly Than A Spider.