The Artist Appeals To That Part Of

I Have Wrestled With Death. It Is The Most Unexciting Contest You Can Imagine. It Takes Place In An Impalpable Greyness, With Nothing Underfoot, With Nothing Around, Without Spectators, Without Clamour, Without Glory, Without The Great Desire Of Victory, Without The Great Fear Of Defeat, In A Sickly Atmostphere Of Tepid Scepticism, Without Much Belief In Your Own Right, And Still Less In That Of Your Adversary.

Any Fool Can Carry On, But A Wise Man Knows How To Shorten Sail In Time.

A Modern Fleet Of Ships Does Not So Much Make Use Of The Sea As Exploit A Highway.

Criticism, That Fine Flower Of Personal Expression In The Garden Of Letters.

The Ethical View Of The Universe Involves Us In So Many Cruel And Absurd Contradictions That I Have Come To Suspect That The Aim Of Creation Cannot Be Ethical At All.