Why Is It That Words

What Birds Were They? (...) He Listened To The Cries: Like The Squeak Of Mice Be- Hind The Wainscot : A Shrill Twofold Note. But The Notes Were Long And Shrill And Whirring, Unlike The Cry Of Vermin, Falling A Third Or A Fourth And Trilled As The Flying Beaks Clove The Air. Their Cry Was Shrill And Clear And Fine And Falling Like Threads Of Silken Light Unwound From Whirring Spools.

In This Life Our Sorrows Are Either Not Very Long Or Not Very Great Because Nature Either Overcomes Them By Habits Or Puts An End To Them By Sinking Under Their Weight. But In Hell The Torments Cannot Be Overcome By Habit, For While They Are Of Terrible Intensity They Are At The Same Time Of Continual Variety, Each Pain, So To Speak, Taking Fire From Another And Re-endowing That Which Has Enkindled It With A Still Fiercer Flame.

The Supreme Question About A Work Of Art Is Out Of How Deep A Life Does It Spring. Paintings Of Moreau Are Paintings Of Ideas. The Deepest Poetry Of Shelley, The Words Of Hamlet Bring Our Mind Into Contact With The Eternal Wisdom; Plato's World Of Ideas. All The Rest Is The Speculation Of Schoolboys For Schoolboys.

Always See A Fellows Weak Point In His Wife.

Why Is It That Words Like These Seem Dull And Cold? Is It Because There Is No Word Tender Enough To Be Your Name?