See The Last Orange Roses, How They

There Is Something Intrinsically Wrong About Letters. For One Thing They Are Not Instantaneous. ... Nor Is This The Only Trouble About Letters. They Do Not Arrive Often Enough. A Letter Which Has Been Passionately Awaited Should Be Immediately Supplemented By Another One, To Counteract The Feeling Of Flatness That Comes Upon Us When The Agonizing Delights Of Anticipation Have Been Replaced By The Colder Flood Of Fulfilment.

I Like Owls. I Admire Their Intransigent Spirit. I Have Respected Them Deeply Ever Since I Met A Baby Owl In A Wood, When It Fell Over Dead, Apparently From Sheer Temper, Because I Dared To Approach It. It Defied Me First, And Then Died. I Have Never Forgotten The Horror And Shame I Experienced When That Soft Fluffy Thing (towards Which I Had Nothing But The Most Humanitarian Motives) Fell Dead From Rage At My Feet.

Prose Is A Poor Thing, A Poor Inadequate Thing, Compared With Poetry Which Says So Much More In Shorter Time.

A Flowerless Room Is A Soulless Room, To My Way Of Thinking; But Even A Solitary Little Vase Of A Living Flower May Redeem It.

When, And How, And At What Stage Of Our Development Did Spirituality And Our Strange Notions Of Religion Arise? The Need For Worship Which Is Nothing More Than Our Frightened Refuge Into Propitiation Of A Creator We Do Not Understand? A Detective Story, The Supreme Who-done-it, Written In Indecipherable Hieroglyphics, No Rosetta Stone Supplied By The Consummate Mystifier To Tease Us Poor Fumbling Unravellers Of His Plot.