He Wanted To Cry Quietly But Not

I Am Damnably Sick Of Italy, Italian And Italians, Outrageously, Illogically Sick.... I Hate To Think That Italians Ever Did Anything In The Way Of Art.... What Did They Do But Illustrate A Page Or So Of The New Testament! They Themselves Think They Have A Monopoly In The Line. I Am Dead Tired Of Their Bello And Bellezza.

History Is That Nightmare From Which There Is No Awakening.

Michael Robartes Remembers Forgotten Beauty And, When His Arms Wrap Her Round, He Presses In His Arms The Loveliness Which Has Long Faded From The World. Not This. Not At All. I Desire To Press In My Arms The Loveliness Which Has Not Yet Come Into The World.

When A Man Is Born...there Are Nets Flung At It To Hold It Back From Flight. You Talk To Me Of Nationality, Language, Religion. I Shall Try To Fly By Those Nets.

They Lived And Laughed And Loved And Left.