While We Are Young The

What Is Man, When You Come To Think Upon Him, But A Minutely Set, Ingenious Machine For Turning With Infinite Artfulness, The Red Wine Of Shiraz Into Urine?

I Had A Farm In Africa, At The Foot Of The Ngong Hills. The Equator Runs Across These Highlands, A Hundred Miles To The North, And The Farm Lay At An Altitude Of Over Six Thousand Feet. In The Day-time You Felt That You Had Got High Up, Near To The Sun, But The Early Mornings And Evenings Were Limpid And Restful, And The Nights Were Cold.

Now, Looking Back On My Life In Africa, I Feel That It Might Altogether Be Described As The Existence Of A Person Who Had Come From A Rushed And Noisy World, Into A Still Country.

I Don't Believe In Evil; I Believe Only In Horror. In Nature There Is No Evil, Only An Abundance Of Horror: The Plagues And The Blights And The Ants And The Maggots.

What Is Life When You Come To Think Upon It, But A Most Excellent, Accurately Set, Infinitely Complicated Machine For Turning Fat Playful Puppies Into Old Mangy Blind Dogs, And Proud War Horses Into Skinny Nags, And Succulent Young Boys, To Whom The World Holds Great Delights And Terrors, Into Old Weak Men, With Running Eyes, Who Drink Ground Rhino-horn?