Maybe There Is A Beast… Maybe It's

He Found Himself Understanding The Wearisomeness Of This Life,where Every Path Was An Improvisation And A Considerable Part Of One's Waking Life Was Spent Watching One's Feet.

The Man Who Tells The Tale If He Has A Tale Worth Telling Will Know Exactly What He Is About And This Business Of The Artist As A Sort Of Starry-eyed Inspired Creature, Dancing Along, With His Feet Two Or Three Feet Above The Surface Of The Earth, Not Really Knowing What Sort Of Prints He's Leaving Behind Him, Is Nothing Like The Truth.

I Play The Piano Passionately And Inaccurately. Indeed, I Worked Out The Other Day That Of My Seventy-five Years; I Have Spent At Least One Year Sitting On A Piano Stool.

Maybe Half A Dozen Think They Are A Community, But, In General Terms, I Think English Writers Tend To Face Outwards, Away From Each Other, And Write In Their Own Patch, As It Were.

Latin, As We All Know, Ultimately Broke Down Into Spanish, Italian, French, And So On. One Wonders Whether There Will Be An Imperial Parallel With English Breaking Down Into, Shall We Say, North American, European, Australian, And So On. On The Other Hand, There Is This Immense, Inward-driving Influence Of Radio And Television That Is Bringing Us All Back Together. One Could Say It's A Fight Between The Two: A Fight Between Regionalism And The Standardization Through Communication.