The Secret Of Contentment Is Never To

A Letter Is Paradoxically The Most Revealing And The Most Deceptive Of Confessional Revelations. We All Have Our Inconsistencies, Prejudices, Irrationalities Which, Although Strongly Felt At The Time, May Be Transitory. A Letter Captures The Mood Of The Moment. The Transitory Becomes Immutably Fixed, Part Of The Evidence For The Prosecution Or The Defence.

Without The Hope Of Posterity, For Our Race If Not For Ourselves, Without The Assurance That We Being Dead Yet Live, All Pleasures Of The Mind And Senses Sometimes Seem To Me No More Than Pathetic And Crumbling Defences Shored Up Against Our Ruin.

I Still Occasionally Need To Struggle But I Now Fear It Less. The Weapons I Fight It With Are Also My Consolations: Books, Music, Food, Wine, Nature.

We Live In A Society Which Salves Its Conscience More By Helping The Interestingly Unfortunate Than The Dull Deserving.

No Government Can Act In Advance Of The Moral Will Of The People.