London Is A Huge Shop, With A

To Every Man It Is Decreed: Thou Shalt Live Alone. Happy They Who Imagine That They Have Escaped The Common Lot; Happy, Whilst They Imagine It.

Flippancy, The Most Hopeless Form Of Intellectual Vice.

And Why Should Any Man Who Writes, Even If He Writes Things Immortal, Nurse Anger At The World's Neglect? Who Asked Him To Publish? Who Promised Him A Hearing? Who Has Broken Faith With Him? Your Poem, Your Novel, Who Bargained With You For It?

One Of The Shining Moments Of My Day Is That When, Having Returned A Little Weary From An Afternoon Walk, I Exchange Boots For Slippers, Out-of-doors Coat For Easy, Familiar, Shabby Jacket, And, In My Deep, Soft-elbowed Chair, Await The Tea-tray.... [h]ow Delicious Is The Soft Yet Penetrating Odour Which Floats Into My Study, With The Appearance Of The Teapot!... What A Glow Does It Bring After A Walk In Chilly Rain!

To Like Keats Is A Test Of Fitness For Understanding Poetry, Just As To Like Shakespeare Is A Test Of General Mental Capacity.