There Is, After All, No

Slowly, But Very Deliberately, The Brooding Edifice Of Seduction, Creaking And Incongruous, Came Into Being, A Vast Heath Robinson Mechanism, Dually Controlled By Them And Lumbering Gloomily Down Vistas Of Triteness. With A Sort Of Heavy-fisted Dexterity The Mutually Adapted Emotions Of Each Of Them Became Synchronized, Until The Unavoidable Anti-climax Was At Hand.

Few Persons Who Have Ever Sat For A Portrait Can Have Felt Anything But Inferior While The Process Is Going On.

One Passes Through The World Knowing Few, If Any, Of The Important Things About Even The People With Whom One Has Been From Time To Time In The Closest Intimacy.

I Was Impressed For The Ten Thousandth Time By The Fact That Literature Illuminates Life Only For Those To Whom Books Are A Necessity. Books Are Unconvertible Assets, To Be Passed On Only To Those Who Possess Them Already.

For Reasons Not Always At The Time Explicable, There Are Specific Occasions When Events Begin Suddenly To Take On A Significance Previously Unsuspected, So That, Before We Really Know Where We Are, Life Seems To Have Begun In Earnest At Last, And We Ourselves, Scarcely Aware That Any Change Has Taken Place, Are Careering Uncontrollably Down The Slippery Avenues Of Eternity.