She Was A Logical Child, As Far

Once Upon A Time, When Men And Women Hurtled Through The Air On Metal Wings, When They Wore Webbed Feet And Walked On The Bottom Of The Sea, Learning The Speech Of Whales And The Songs Of The Dolphins, When Pearly-fleshed And Jewelled Apparitions Of Texan Herdsmen And Houris Shimmered In The Dusk On Nicaraguan Hillsides, When Folk In Norway And Tasmania In Dead Of Winter Could Dream Of Fresh Strawberries, Dates, Guavas And Passion Fruits And Find Them Spread Next Morning On Their Tables, There Was A Woman Who Was Largely Irrelevant, And Therefore Happy.

I Am A Profound Pessimist Both About Life And About Human Relations And About Politics And Ecology. Humans Are Inadequate And Stupid Creatures Who Sooner Or Later Make A Mess, And Those Who Are Trying To Do Good Do A Lot More Damage Than Those Who Are Muddling Along.

Only Write To Me, Write To Me, I Love To See The Hop And Skip And Sudden Starts Of Your Ink.

Good Writing Is Always New.

There Is A Peculiar Aesthetic Pleasure In Constructing The Form Of A Syllabus, Or A Book Of Essays, Or A Course Of Lectures. Visions And Shadows Of People And Ideas Can Be Arranged And Rearranged Like Stained-glass Pieces In A Window, Or Chessmen On A Board.