Is Despair Wrong? Isn’t It The Natural

Life Is Like Invading Russia. A Blitz Start, Massed Shakos, Plumes Dancing Like A Flustered Henhouse; A Period Of Svelte Progress Recorded In Ebullient Despatches As The Enemy Falls Back; Then The Beginning Of A Long, Morale-sapping Trudge With Rations Getting Shorter And The First Snowflakes Upon Your Face. The Enemy Burns Moscow And You Yield To General January, Whose Fingernails Are Very Icicles. Bitter Retreat. Harrying Cossacks. Eventually You Fall Beneath A Boy-gunner's Grapeshot While Crossing Some Polish River Not Even Marked On Your General's Map.

The Companionship Of Dead Writers Is A Wonderful Form Of Live Friendship.

Sometimes I Think The Purpose Of Life Is To Reconcile Us To Its Eventual Loss By Wearing Us Down, By Proving, However Long It Takes, That Life Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be.

If A Man Cannot Tell What He Wants To Do, Then He Must Find Out What He Ought To Do. If Desire Has Become Complicated, Then Hold Fast To Duty.

Those Were The Days In This Country Where H. G. Wells, Bernard Shaw And Conan Doyle Could Have Influence, And Thats Gone, Thats True. But I Dont Think We Have Less Influence In The Hearts And Minds Of Readers. I Think, If Anything, We Have Just As Much, If Not More.