What Thou Lovest Well Remains.

And The Good Writer Chooses His Words For Their 'meaning', But That Meaning Is Not A A Set, Cut-off Thing Like The Move Of Knight Or Pawn On A Chess-board. It Comes Up With Roots, With Associations, With How And Where The Word Is Familiarly Used, Or Where It Has Been Used Brilliantly Or Memorably.

All My Life I Believed I Knew Something. But Then One Strange Day Came When I Realized That I Knew Nothing, Yes, I Knew Nothing. And So Words Became Void Of Meaning. I Have Arrived Too Late At Ultimate Uncertainty.

Objectivity And Again Objectivity, And Expression: No Hindside-before-ness, No Straddled Adjectives (as "addled Mosses Dank"), No Tennysonianness Of Speech; Nothing-nothing That You Couldn't, In Some Circumstance, In The Stress Of Some Emotion, Actually Say.

Liberty Is Not A Right But A Duty.

We Live In An Age Of Science And Of Abundance. The Care And Reverence For Books As Such, Proper To An Age When No Book Was Duplicated Until Someone Took The Pains To Copy It Out By Hand, Is Obviously No Longer Suited To ’the Needs Of Society’, Or To The Conservation Of Learning. The Weeder Is Supremely Needed If The Garden Of The Muses Is To Persist As A Garden.