The Damned Book I Am Writing Is

Sorrow And Frustration Have Their Power. The World Is Moved By People With Great Discontents. Happiness Is A Drug. It Can Make Men Blind And Deaf And Insensible To Reality. There Are Times When Only Sorrow Can Give To Sorrow.

The World, With All Its Beauty And Adventure, Its Richness And Variety, Is Darkened By Cruelty. Death, If It Ends The Loveliness, The Adventure, Ends Also That. Death Balances The Picture.

We Are So Little, So Ignorant, So Feeble An Infant Race Crawling On A Planet Between Immensities We Haven't Even Begun To Understand, That Really We Have No Grounds For Either Congratulation Or Despair.

Public Work Brings A Vicarious But Assured Sense Of Immortality. We May Be Poor, Weak, Timid, In Debt To Our Landlady, Bullied By Our Nieces, Stiff In The Joints, Shortsighted And Distressed; We Shall Perish, But The Cause Endures; The Cause Is Great.

If You Are Rich, You Have Lovely Cars, And Jars Full Of Flowers, And Books In Rows, And A Wireless, And The Best Sort Of Gramophone And Meringues For Supper.