Serve You Right If Something Did Get

Of The Authors Writing In English, I'd Mention Shakespeare And Milton. But All This Is Terribly High-hat And Makes Me Sound Very Po-faced, I'm Afraid; However, I Just Happen To Like These Enormous, Swinging, Great Creatures.

Life's Scientific, But We Don't Know, Do We? Not Certainly, I Mean.

Are We Savages Or What?

Roger Stooped, Picked Up A Stone, Aimed And Threw It At Henry-threw It To Miss. The Stone, That Token Of Preposterous Time, Bounced Five Yards To Henry's Right And Fell In The Water. Roger Gathered A Handful Of Stones And Began To Throw Them. Yet There Was A Space Round Henry, Perhaps Six Yards In Diameter, Into Which He Dare Not Throw. Here, Invisible Yet Strong, Was The Taboo Of The Old Life. Round The Squatting Child Was The Protection Of Parents And School And Policemen And The Law. Roger Was Conditioned By A Civilization That Knew Nothing Of Him And Was In Ruins.

Art Is Partly Communication, But Only Partly. The Rest Is Discovery.