It Is Always Hard To

When Our Thoughts Revolve We Are So Often Deceived Into Supposing That Their Violent Movement Is An Indication Of Their Vigorous Originality, The Upheaval Of Prejudice And Fixed Ideas, When All The Time It Is More Likely That The Machine Which Contains Them Is Only An Elaborate Cement-mixer, And When The Thinking Is Finished, Those Whirling Thoughts Are Smoothed Into The Unchanged Conventional Mould And Seeing Them Set Solid Enough To Dance, To Build, To Travel Upon, We Would Never Dream Of Their First Deceit, Of The Hope Once Roused By Their Apparently Violent Reorganisation.

Time Past Is Not Time Gone, It Is Time Accumulated With The Host Resembling The Character In The Fairytale Who Was Joined Along The Route By More And More Characters None Of Whom Could Be Separated From One Another Or From The Host, With Some Stuck So Fast That Their Presence Caused Physical Pain.

Electricity, The Peril The Wind Sings To In The Wires On A Gray Day.

All Writers Are Exiles Wherever They Live And Their Work Is A Lifelong Journey Towards The Lost Land.

Every Morning I Woke In Dread, Waiting For The Day Nurse To Go On Her Rounds And Announce From The List Of Names In Her Hand Whether Or Not I Was For Shock Treatment, The New And Fashionable Means Of Quieting People And Of Making Them Realize That Orders Are To Be Obeyed And Floors Are To Be Polished Without Anyone Protesting And Faces Are To Be Made To Be Fixed Into Smiles And Weeping Is A Crime.