Words Are A Commodity In Which There

Truth And Beauty (perhaps Keats Was Wrong In Identifying Them: Perhaps They Have The Relation Of Wit And Humour, Or Rain And Rainbow) Are Of Interest Only To Hungry People. There Are Several Kinds Of Hunger. If Socrates, Spinoza, And Santayana Had Had Free Access To A Midnight Icebox We Would Never Have Heard Of Them. Shall I Be Ashamed Of My Little Mewing Truths?... I Ask To Be Forgiven: They Are Such Tiny Ones.

Beauty Is Ever To The Lonely Mind A Shadow Fleeting; She Is Never Plain. She Is A Visitor Who Leaves Behind The Gift Of Grief, The Souvenir Of Pain.

They Go In [to The Library] Not Because They Need Any Certain Volume But Because They Feel That There May Be Some Book That Needs Them.

If You Have To Keep Reminding Yourself Of A Thing, Perhaps It Isn't So.

Being In A Hurry Seems So Fiercely Important When You Yourself Are The Hurrier And So Comically Ludicrous When It Is Someone Else.