Every Island To A Child Is A

The Tragedy Of Loss Is Not That We Grieve, But That We Cease To Grieve, And Then Perhaps The Dead Are Dead At Last.

Without The Hope Of Posterity, For Our Race If Not For Ourselves, Without The Assurance That We Being Dead Yet Live, All Pleasures Of The Mind And Senses Sometimes Seem To Me No More Than Pathetic And Crumbling Defences Shored Up Against Our Ruin.

First-class Travel, Provided One Hasn't To Pay For It Oneself, Is The Most Insidiously Addictive Of Life's Luxuries.

Children Live In Occupied Territory. The Brave And The Foolhardy Openly Rebel Against Authority, Whether Harsh Or Benign. But Most Tread Warily, Outwardly Accommodating Themselves To Alien Mores And Edicts While Living In Secret Their Iconoclastic And Subversive Lives.

Time Didn't Heal, But It Anesthetized. The Human Mind Could Only Feel So Much.