One Learns One’s Mystery At The Price

Art Is Always At Peril In Universities, Where There Are So Many People, Young And Old, Who Love Art Less Than Argument, And Dote Upon A Text That Provides The Nutritious Pemmican On Which Scholars Love To Chew.

Conversation In Its True Meaning Isn't All Wagging The Tongue; Sometimes It Is A Deeply Shared Silence.

Canada, Having Few Indigenous Prejudices, Has Been Compelled To Import Them From Elsewhere, Duty-free, And It Is The Rare Canadian Who Is Not Shaken, At Some Time In The Year, By "old, Unhappy, Far-off Things / And Battles Long Ago", Like Wordsworth's Solitary Reaper. We Are A Nation Of Immigrants, And Not Happy In Our Minds.

That Is The Operatic Problem; The Singer Must Keep Up A Big Head Of Steam While Trying To Appear Secretive, Or Seductive, Or Consumptive. Some Ingenious Composer Should Write An Opera About A Group Of People Who Were Condemned By A Cruel God To Scream All The Time; It Would Be An Instantaneous Success, And A Triumph Of Versimilitude.

I Still Have Trouble Identifying Grammatical Structures By Name, Though I Know Them As Matters Of Usage.