There Was Always Another Side

If You Live In A Place For Long You Cease To Read About It.

A Writer Doesn't Write For His Readers, Does He? Yet He Has To Take Elementary Precautions All The Same, To Make Them Comfortable.

Nobody Here Could Ever Talk About A Heaven On Earth. Heaven Remained Rigidly In Its Proper Place On The Other Side Of Death, And On This Side Flourished The Injustices, The Cruelties, The Meanness That Elsewhere People So Cleverly Hushed Up. Here You Could Love Human Beings Nearly As God Loved Them, Knowing The Worst: You Didn't Love A Pose, A Pretty Dress, A Sentiment Artfully Assumed.

My Fellow Journalists Called Themselves Correspondents; I Preferred The Title Of Reporter. I Wrote What I Saw. I Took No Action -- Even An Opinion Is A Kind Of Action.

Eternity Is Said Not To Be An Extension Of Time But An Absence Of Time, And Sometimes It Seemed To Me That Her Abandonment Touched That Strange Mathematical Point Of Endlessness, A Point With No Width, Occupying No Space.