What Could Be Safer Than The Bus

I Suppose I'd Have To Say That My Favourite Author Is Homer. After Homer's Ilaid, I'd Name The Odyssey, And Then I'd Mention A Number Of Plays Of Euripides.

The Man Who Tells The Tale If He Has A Tale Worth Telling Will Know Exactly What He Is About And This Business Of The Artist As A Sort Of Starry-eyed Inspired Creature, Dancing Along, With His Feet Two Or Three Feet Above The Surface Of The Earth, Not Really Knowing What Sort Of Prints He's Leaving Behind Him, Is Nothing Like The Truth.

An Orotundity, Which I Define As Nobelitis A Pomposity In Which One Is Treated As Representative Of More Than Oneself By Someone Conscious Of Representing More Than Himself.

Roger Stooped, Picked Up A Stone, Aimed And Threw It At Henry-threw It To Miss. The Stone, That Token Of Preposterous Time, Bounced Five Yards To Henry's Right And Fell In The Water. Roger Gathered A Handful Of Stones And Began To Throw Them. Yet There Was A Space Round Henry, Perhaps Six Yards In Diameter, Into Which He Dare Not Throw. Here, Invisible Yet Strong, Was The Taboo Of The Old Life. Round The Squatting Child Was The Protection Of Parents And School And Policemen And The Law. Roger Was Conditioned By A Civilization That Knew Nothing Of Him And Was In Ruins.

Nothing Is So Impenetrable As Laughter In A Language You Don't Understand.