The Business Of The Artist Is Not

I Love You - I Am At Rest With You - I Have Come Home.

Wimsey Stooped For An Empty Sardine-tin Which Lay, Horribly Battered, At His Feet, And Slung It Idly Into The Quag. It Struck The Surface With A Noice Like A Wet Kiss, And Vanished Instantly. With That Instinct Which Prompts One, When Depressed, To Wallow In Every Circumstance Of Gloom, Peter Leaned Sadly Against The Hurdles And Abandoned Himself To A Variety Of Shallow Considerations Upon (1) The Vanity Of Human Wishes; (2) Mutability; (3) First Love; (4) The Decay Of Idealism; (5) The Aftermath Of The Great War; (6) Birth-control; And (7) The Fallacy Of Free-will.

The War Has Jerked Us Pretty Sharply Into Consciousness About This Slug-a-bed Sin Of Sloth, And Perhaps We Need Not Say Too Much About It. But Two Warnings Are Rather Necessary.

What We Make Is More Important Than What We Are, Particularly If Making Is Our Profession.

In The World It Is Called Tolerance, But In Hell It Is Called Despair...the Sin That Believes In Nothing, Cares For Nothing, Seeks To Know Nothing, Interferes With Nothing, Enjoys Nothing, Hates Nothing, Finds Purpose In Nothing, Lives For Nothing, And Remains Alive Because There Is Nothing For Which It Will Die.