Why Haven't We Seventy Lives?

This Alone Is To Be Feared - The Closed Mind, The Sleeping Imagination, The Death Of The Spirit. The Death Of The Body Is To That, I Think, A Little Thing.

The Damned Book I Am Writing Is Like The Driveling Of A Weak-kneed Sea Calf. If I Were Sufficiently Strong Minded, I Should Tear It Up An Start Again. But I Don't.

Remorse ... Is One Of The Many Afflictions For Which Time Finds A Cure.

Why Haven't We Seventy Lives? One Is No Use.

We Each Live In A Private, Distorted, Individual World - Stars Turning In Space, Warmed For A Moment By Each Other's Light, Then Lost In Infinite Distance.