And One Would Worship A Woman Whom

I Fight Against The Gluttony Of Time With So Many Very Amusing Weapons With Gestures And With Three Attitudes And With Charming Phrases; With Tears And With Tinsel, And With Sugar-coated Pills, And With Platitudes Slightly Regilded. Yes, And I Fight Him Also With Little Mirrors Wherein Gleam Confusedly The Corruptions Of Lust, And Ruddy Loyalty, And A Bit Of Moonshine, And The Pure Diamond Of The Heart's Desire, And The Opal Cloudings Of Human Compromise: But, Above All, I Fight That Ravening Dotard With The Strength Of My Own Folly.

While It Is Well Enough To Leave Footprints On The Sands Of Time, It Is Even More Important To Make Sure They Point In A Commendable Direction.

There Is Not Any Memory With Less Satisfaction Than The Memory Of Some Temptation We Resisted.

Poetry Is Man's Rebellion Against Being What He Is.

Here Was The Astounding Fact: The Race Did Go Forward; The Race Did Achieve; And In Every Way The Race Grew Better. Progress Through Irrational And Astounding Blunders, Whose Outrageousness Bedwarfed The Wildest Cliches Of Romance, Was What Kennaston Found Everywhere. All This, Then, Also Was Foreplanned, Just As All Happenings At Storisende Had Been, In His Puny Romance; And The Puppets, Here To, Moved As They Thought Of Their Own Volition, But Really In Order To Serve A Denouement In Which Many Of Them Had Not Any Personal Part Or Interest...