Oh, Time Betrays Us. Time Is The

Public Work Brings A Vicarious But Assured Sense Of Immortality. We May Be Poor, Weak, Timid, In Debt To Our Landlady, Bullied By Our Nieces, Stiff In The Joints, Shortsighted And Distressed; We Shall Perish, But The Cause Endures; The Cause Is Great.

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.

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.

There's Never Been A Lack Of Men Willing To Die Bravely. The Trouble Is To Find A Few Able To Live Sensibly.

I Would, If I Could, Always Feed To Music. The Singularly Graceless Action Of Thus Filling One's Body With Roots And Dead Animals And Powdered Grain Is Given Some Significance Then. One Can Perform As A Ritual What One Is Shamed To Do As A Utilitarian Action.