There Cannot Be Any True Leisure Until

One Degrades Oneself Sometimes In The Effort Not To Be Lonely.

I Must Fight With My Weapons. Not His. Not Selfishness And Brutality And Shame And Resentment.

I Hate The Uneducated And The Ignorant. I Hate The Pompous And The Phoney. I Hate The Jealous And The Resentful. I Hate The Crabbed And Mean And The Petty. I Hate All Ordinary Dull Little People Who Aren't Ashamed Of Being Dull And Little.

Like All Mystics (and Many Novelists, Not Least The Present One) He Is Baffled, A Child, Before The Real Now; Far Happier Out Of It, In A Narrative Past Or A Prophetic Future, Locked Inside That Weird Tence Grammar Does Not Allow, The Imaginary Present.

But However Good You Get At Translating Personality Into Line Or Paint It's No Go If Your Personality Isn't Worth Translating.