An Author Who Waits For

Most Of Us Have To Be Self-righteous Before We Can Be Righteous.

I Know Of No Place Where The Wind Can Be As Icy And The Damp So Penetrating As In Oxford Round About Easter Time.

For A Woman As For A Man, Marriage Might Enormously Help Or Devastatingly Hinder The Growth Of Her Power To Contribute Something Impersonally Valuable To The Community In Which She Lived, But It Was Not That Power, And Could Not Be Regarded As An End In Itself. Nor, Even, Were Children Ends In Themselves; It Was Useless To Go On Producing Human Beings Merely In Order That They, In Their Sequence, Might Produce Others, And Never Turn From This Business Of Continuous Procreation To The Accomplishment Of Some Definite And Lasting Piece Of Work.

Venice Is All Sea And Sculpture.

The Tragedy Of Journalism Lies In Its Impermanence; The Very Topicality Which Gives It Brilliance Condemns It To An Early Death. Too Often It Is A Process Of Flinging Bright Balloons In The Path Of The Hurricane, A Casting Of Priceless Petals Upon The Rushing Surface Of A Stream.