How Sure I Feel, How Warm And

The Real Tragedy Of England, As I See It, Is The Tragedy Of Ugliness. The Country Is So Lovely: The Man-made England Is So Vile.

Sometimes Life Takes Hold Of One, Carries The Body Along, Accomplishes One's History, And Yet Is Not Real, But Leaves Oneself As It Were Slurred Over.

That Which One Cannot Experience In Daily Life Is Not True For Oneself.

Nothing That Comes From The Deep, Passional Soul Is Bad, Or Can Be Bad.

That Is Almost The Whole Of Russian Literature: The Phenomenal Coruscations Of The Souls Of Quite Commonplace People.