Misery, Anger, Indignation, Discomfort-those Conditions Produce Literature.

There Is An Ideal Standard Somewhere And Only That Matters And I Cannot Find It. Hence The Aimlessness.

To Have News Value Is To Have A Tin Can Tied To One's Tail.

Isn't It True That The Fault Of Birth Rests Somewhat On The Child? I Believe It's We Who Led Our Parents On To Bear Us, And It's Our Unborn Children Who Make Our Flesh Itch.

Cling Tight To Your Sense Of Humour. You Will Need It Every Day.

We Had Been Hopelessly Labouring To Plough Waste Lands; To Make Nationality Grow In A Place Full Of The Certainty Of God… Among The Tribes Our Creed Could Be Only Like The Desert Grass – A Beautiful Swift Seeming Of Spring; Which, After A Day’s Heat, Fell Dusty.