How Shall The Murdered Man Convince His

No, My Secrets Are Of The Grave And Must Be Kept. And This Is How I Sometimes Think Of Myself, As A Great Explorer Who Has Discovered Some Extraordinary Land From Which He Can Never Return To Give His Knowledge To The World: But The Name Of This Land Is Hell.

There Was No Mistaking, Even In The Uncertain Light, The Hand, Half Crabbed, Half Generous, And Wholly Drunken, Of The Consul Himself, The Greek E's, The Flying Buttresses Of D's, The T's Like Lonely Wayside Crosses Save Where They Crucified An Entire Word.

The Consul Felt A Pang. Ah, To Have A Horse, And Gallop Away, Singing, To Someone You Loved Perhaps, Into The Heart Of All The Simplicity And Peace In The World; Was That Not Like The Opportunity Afforded Man By Life Itself? Of Course Not. Still, Just For A Moment, It Had Seemed That It Was.

Only Against Death Does Man Cry Out In Vain.

The Movements Of Some More Little Red Birds In The Garden, Like Animated Rosebuds, Appeared Unbearably Jittery And Thievish. It Was As Though The Creatures Were Attached By Sensitive Wires To His Nerves.