I Want, By Understanding Myself, To Understand

I Think I Hate Snow, Downright Hate It. There Is Something Stupefying In It, A Kind Of 'you Must Be Worse Before You're Better,' And Down It Spins.

In The Shortest Sea Voyage There Is No Sense Of Time. You Have Been Down In The Cabin For Hours Or Days Or Years. Nobody Knows Or Cares. You Know All The People To The Point Of Indifference. You Do Not Believe In Dry Land Any More - You Are Caught In The Pendulum Itself, And Left There, Idly Swinging.

England Is Merely An Island Of Beef Swimming In A Warm Gulf Stream Of Gravy.

What Can You Do If You Are Thirty And, Turning The Corner Of Your Own Street, You Are Overcome, Suddenly, By A Feeling Of Bliss - Absolute Bliss - As Though You'd Suddenly Swallowed A Bright Piece Of That Late Afternoon Sun And It Burned In Your Bosom, Sending Out A Little Shower Of Sparks Into Every Particle Into Every Finger And Toe?

I Am A Recluse At Present & Do Nothing But Write & Read & Read & Write