To Despise All Effort Is

Each Age, Each Guilty Age, Builds High Walls Around Its Versailles; And Personally I Hate Those Walls Most When They Are Made By Literature And Art.

No Amount Of Reading And Intelligent Deduction Could Supplant The Direct Experience.

We Lay On The Ground And Kissed. Perhaps You Smile. That We Only Lay On The Ground And Kissed. You Young People Can Lend Your Bodies Now, Play With Them, Give Them As We Could Not. But Remember That You Have Paid A Price: That Of A World Rich In Mystery And Delicate Emotion. It Is Not Only Species Of Animal That Die Out. But Whole Species Of Feeling. And If You Are Wise You Will Never Pity The Past For What It Did Not Know. But Pity Yourself For What It Did.

Medieval Theologians Used To Dispute How The Angels In The Heaven Spent Their Time, When Not Balancing On Needle Points And Singing Anthems To The Lord. I Know. They Slump Glued To Their Clouds, Glasses At The Ready, As The Archangel Micheal (that Well-known Slasher) And Stonewalling St Peter Open Against The Devils Xi. It Could Not Be Heaven, Otherwise.

I Am One In A Row Of Specimens. It's When I Try To Flutter Out Of Line That He Hates Me. I'm Meant To Be Dead, Pinned, Always The Same, Always Beautiful. He Knows That Part Of My Beauty Is Being Alive. But It's The Dead Me He Wants. He Wants Me Living-but-dead.