It Is A Consolation Of

A Mutually Fulfilled Sexual Union Between Two People Is The Rarest Sensation Which Life Can Provide. But It Is Not Quite Real. It Stops When The Telephone Rings. Such A Passion Can Be Kept At Its Early Strength Only By Adding To It Either More And More Unhappiness (jealousy, Separation, Doubt, Renunciation), Or More And More Artificiality (drink, Technique, Stage-illusions). Whoever Has Missed This Has Never Lived, Who Lives For It Alone Is But Partly Alive.

It Is After Creation, In The Elation Of Success, Or The Gloom Of Failure, That Love Becomes Essential.

The English Masses Are Lovable: They Are Kind, Decent, Tolerant, Practical And Not Stupid. The Tragedy Is That They Are Too Many Of Them, And That They Are Aimless, Having Outgrown The Servile Functions For Which They Were Encouraged To Multiply. One Day These Huge Crowds Will Have To Seize Power Because There Will Be Nothing Else For Them To Do, And Yet They Neither Demand Power Nor Are Ready To Make Use Of It; They Will Learn Only To Be Bored In A New Way.

Hemingway Is Great In That Alone Of Living Writers He Has Saturated His Work With The Memory Of Physical Pleasure, With Sunshine And Salt Water, With Food, Wine And Making Love And The Remorse Which Is The Shadow Of That Sun.

The Civilized Are Those Who Get More Out Of Life Than The Uncivilized, And For This We Are Not Likely To Be Forgiven.