Innocence Is A Kind Of Insanity

He Was Impregnably Armored By His Good Intentions And His Ignorance.

Tea At College Was Served On Long Tables With An Urn At The End Of Each. Long Baguettes Of Bread, Three To A Table, Were Set Out With Meagre Portions Of Butter And Jam; The China Was Coarse To Withstand The Schoolboy-clutch And The Tea Strong. At The Hôtel De Paris I Was Astonished At The Fragility Of The Cups, The Silver Teapot, The Little Triangular Savoury Sandwiches, The éclairs Stuffed With Cream.

To Comfort Me Is Like The Wrong Memory At The Wrong Place Or Time: If One Is Lonely One Prefers Discomfort.

He Entered The Territory Of Lies Without A Passport For Return.

What Have We All Got To Expect That We Allow Ourselves To Be So Lined With Disappointment?