Rhythm Is Form Cut Into Time.

There Are Few Things More Difficult Than To Appraise The Work Of A Man Suddenly Dead In His Youth; To Disentangle Promise From Achievement; To Save Him From That Sentimentalizing Which Confuses The Tragedy Of The Interruption With The Merit Of The Work Actually Performed.

Glance Is The Enemy Of Vision.

Nothing Written For Pay Is Worth Printing. Only What Has Been Written Against The Market.

And The Good Writer Chooses His Words For Their 'meaning', But That Meaning Is Not A A Set, Cut-off Thing Like The Move Of Knight Or Pawn On A Chess-board. It Comes Up With Roots, With Associations, With How And Where The Word Is Familiarly Used, Or Where It Has Been Used Brilliantly Or Memorably.

The Garden En Robe De Parade. - Samain Like A Skein Of Loose Silk Blown Against A Wall She Walks By The Railing Of A Path In Kensington Gardens, And She Is Dying Piece-meal Of A Sort Of Emotional Anaemia. And Round About There Is A Rabble Of The Filthy, Sturdy, Unkillable Infants Of The Very Poor. They Shall Inherit The Earth. In Her Is The End Of Breeding. Her Boredom Is Exquisite And Excessive. She Would Like Some One To Speak To Her, And Is Almost Afraid That I Will Commit That Indiscretion.