Sex Is Really Only Touch,

The Real Tragedy Of England, As I See It, Is The Tragedy Of Ugliness. The Country Is So Lovely: The Man-made England Is So Vile.

Sex Is The Root Of Which Intuition Is The Foliage And Beauty Is The Flower.

The Autumn Always Gets Me Badly, As It Breaks Into Colours. I Want To Go South, Where There Is No Autumn, Where The Cold Doesn't Crouch Over One Like A Snow-leopard Waiting To Pounce.

It Always Seemed To Me That Men Wore Their Beards, Like They Wear Their Neckties, For Show.

The Day Of The Absolute Is Over, And We're In For The Strange Gods Once More.