The More You Learn, The Less You

And If You Had No Tongue, No Celebrating Language, You’d Do This: Cross Your Hands At The Wrist With Palms Facing Towards You; Place Your Crossed Wrists Over Your Heart (the Middle Of Your Chest, Anyway); Then Move Your Hands Outwards A Short Distance, And Open Them Towards The Object Of Your Love. It’s Just As Eloquent As Speech.

The Imagination Doesn't Crop Annually Like A Reliable Fruit Tree. The Writer Has To Gather Whatever's There: Sometimes Too Much, Sometimes Too Little, Sometimes Nothing At All. And In The Years Of Glut There Is Always A Slatted Wooden Tray In Some Cool, Dark Attic, Which The Writer Nervously Visits From Time To Time; And Yes, Oh Dear, While He's Been Hard At Work Downstairs, Up In The Attic There Are Puckering Skins, Warning Spots, A Sudden Brown Collapse And The Sprouting Of Snowflakes. What Can He Do About It?

Those Were The Days In This Country Where H. G. Wells, Bernard Shaw And Conan Doyle Could Have Influence, And Thats Gone, Thats True. But I Dont Think We Have Less Influence In The Hearts And Minds Of Readers. I Think, If Anything, We Have Just As Much, If Not More.

To Look At Ourselves From Afar, To Make The Subjective Suddenly Objective: This Gives Us A Psychic Shock.

If A Man Cannot Tell What He Wants To Do, Then He Must Find Out What He Ought To Do. If Desire Has Become Complicated, Then Hold Fast To Duty.