It's The Things You Don't Do, Not

What With The Reviews Of Critics, The Sarcasms Of One's Friends, The Reproaches Of One's Own Taste, There's Precious Little Peace After Publishing A Book.

It Is The Brevity Of Life Which Makes It Tolerable; Its Experiences Have Value Because They Have An End.

We Each Live In A Private, Distorted, Individual World - Stars Turning In Space, Warmed For A Moment By Each Other's Light, Then Lost In Infinite Distance.

We Are So Little, So Ignorant, So Feeble An Infant Race Crawling On A Planet Between Immensities We Haven't Even Begun To Understand, That Really We Have No Grounds For Either Congratulation Or Despair.

Love Needs The Stiffening Of Respect, The Give And Take Of Equality.