What Will I Do When I Can

And Love Was Creation's Source,creation's Ruler; But All Love's Ways Are Strewn With Blossoms And Blood, Blossoms And Blood.

Language Must Resound With All The Harmonies Of Music. The Writer Must Always, At All Times, Find The Tremulous Word Which Captures The Thing And Is Able To Draw A Sob From My Soul By Its Very Rightness.

Heaven Knows That There Are Plenty Of Opportunities In Later Life, Too, For Being Carried Away. What Of It? We Remain What We Are And, No Doubt, It Is All Very Good For Us!

You Are Welcome To Your Intellectual Pastimes And Books And Art And Newspapers; Welcome, Too, To Your Bars And Your Whisky That Only Makes Me Ill. Here Am I In The Forest, Quite Content.

But Things Worked Out. Everything Works Out. Though Sometimes They Work Out Sideways.