Only One Hour In The Normal Day

Only One Hour In The Normal Day Is More Pleasurable Than The Hour Spent In Bed With A Book Before Going To Sleep, And That Is The Hour Spent In Bed With A Book After Being Called In The Morning.

We Know One Another's Faults, Virtues, Catastrophes, Mortifications, Triumphs, Rivalries, Desires, And How Long We Can Each Hang By Our Hands To A Bar. We Have Been Banded Together Under Pack Codes And Tribal Laws.

The Very Utterness Of The Crash And Ruin, The Desperation Of The Case, Might Be Its Hope. On Ruins One Can Begin To Build. Anyhow, Looking Out From Ruins One Clearly Sees; There Are No Obstructing Walls.

One Day I Shall Write A Little Book Of Conduct Myself, And I Shall Call It Social Problems Of The Unsociable. And The Root Problem, Beneath A Hundred Varying Manifestions, Is How To Escape. How To Escape, That Is, At Those Times, Be They Few Or Frequent, When You Want To Keep Yourself To Yourself.

As To The Family, I Have Never Understood How That Fits In With The Other Ideals -- Or, Indeed, Why It Should Be An Ideal At All.