I Do Not Understand The

Death Is Loneliness In Its Purest Form.

[on Gertrude Stein's Making Of Americans:] I Doubt If All The People Who Should Read It Will Read It For A Great While Yet, For It Is In Such A Limited Edition, And Reading It Is Anyhow A Sort Of Permanent Occupation.

Untrained Minds Have Always Been A Nuisance To The Military Police Of Orthodoxy. God-intoxicated Mystics And Untidy Saints With Only A White Blaze Of Divine Love Where Their Minds Should Have Been, Are Perpetually Creating Almost As Much Disorder Within The Law As Outside It.

The Human Heart Is Not Yet So Corroded That It Can Read Off The Extinction Of These Two Men Without A Shock To The Very Roots Of Its Belief In Justice And Humanity.

Love Is Purely A Creation Of The Human Imagination, It Is Merely Perhaps The Most Important Of All The Examples Of How The Imagination Continually Outruns The Creature It Inhabits.