We're Not Meant For Happiness, You And

Why Did Dogs Make One Want To Cry? There Was Something So Quiet And Hopeless About Their Sympathy. Jasper, Knowing Something Was Wrong, As Dogs Always Do. Trunks Being Packed. Cars Being Brought To The Door. Dogs Standing With Drooping Tails, Dejected Eyes. Wandering Back To Their Baskets In The Hall When The Sound Of The Car Dies Away.

Sometimes It’s A Sort Of Indulgence To Think The Worst Of Ourselves. We Say, ‘now I Have Reached The Bottom Of The Pit, Now I Can Fall No Further,’ And It Is Almost A Pleasure To Wallow In The Darkness. The Trouble Is, It’s Not True. There Is No End To The Evil In Ourselves, Just As There Is No End To The Good. It’s A Matter Of Choice. We Struggle To Climb, Or We Struggle To Fall. The Thing Is To Discover Which Way We’re Going.

Once A Person Gave His Talent To The World, The World Put A Stamp Upon It. The Talent Was Not A Personal Possession Any More. It Was Something To Be Traded, Bought And Sold. It Fetched A High Price, Or A Low One. It Was Kicked In The Common Market.

Here Was The Freedom I Desired, Long Sought-for, Not Yet Known Freedom To Write, To Walk, To Wander, Freedom To Climb Hills, To Pull A Boat, To Be Alone.

I Have No Talent For Making New Friends, But Oh Such Genius For Fidelity To Old Ones.