The Shell The Sea Fills My Ear

And The Elephant Sings Deep In The Forest-maze About A Star Of Deathless And Painless Peace But No Astronomer Can Find Where It Is.

The Brassy Wood-pigeons Bubble Their Colourful Voices, And The Sun Rises Upon A World Well-tried And Old.

The Progress Of Any Writer Is Marked By Those Moments When He Manages To Outwit His Own Inner Police System.

He Could Not Stand. It Was Not That He Could Not Thrive, He Was Born With Everything But The Will – That Can Be Deformed, Just Like A Limb. Death Was More Interesting To Him. Life Could Not Get His Attention.

The Gash In Its Throat Was Shocking, But Not Pathetic.