The Mind Which Renounces, Once And For

And Why Should Any Man Who Writes, Even If He Writes Things Immortal, Nurse Anger At The World's Neglect? Who Asked Him To Publish? Who Promised Him A Hearing? Who Has Broken Faith With Him? Your Poem, Your Novel, Who Bargained With You For It?

It Is Familiarity With Life That Makes Time Speed Quickly. When Every Day Is A Step In The Unknown, As For Children, The Days Are Long With Gathering Of Experience . . .

The Truths Of Life Are Not Discovered By Us. At Moments Unforeseen, Some Gracious Influence Descends Upon The Soul, Touching It To An Emotion Which, We Know Not How, The Mind Transmutes Into Thought.

It Is Because Nations Tend Towards Stupidity And Baseness That Mankind Moves So Slowly; It Is Because Individuals Have A Capacity For Better Things That It Moves At All.

This Writer, Who Is Horribly Perspicacious And Vigorous, Demonstrates The Certainty Of A Great European War, And Regards It With The Peculiar Satisfaction Excited By Such Things In A Certain Order Of Mind. His Phrases About "dire Calamity" And So On Mean Nothing; The Whole Tenor Of His Writing Proves That He Represents, And Consciously, One Of The Forces Which Go To Bring War About; His Part In The Business Is A Fluent Irresponsibility, Which Casts Scorn On All Who Reluct At The "inevitable." Persistent Prophecy Is A Familiar Way Of Assuring The Event.