Only Against Death Does Man Cry Out

No, My Secrets Are Of The Grave And Must Be Kept. And This Is How I Sometimes Think Of Myself, As A Great Explorer Who Has Discovered Some Extraordinary Land From Which He Can Never Return To Give His Knowledge To The World: But The Name Of This Land Is Hell.

How Alike Are The Groans Of Love To Those Of The Dying.

In The War To Come Correspondents Would Assume Unheard Of Importance, Plunging Through Flame To Feed The Public Its Little Gobbets Of Dehydrated Excrement.

I Like Prefaces. I Read Them. Sometimes I Do Not Read Any Further.

The Howling Pariah Dogs, The Cocks That Herald Dawn All Night, The Drumming, The Moaning That Will Be Found Later White Plumage Huddled On Telegraph Wires In Back Gardens Or Fowl Roosting In Apple Trees, The Eternal Sorrow That Never Sleeps Of Great Mexico.