Perhaps The World Progresses Not By Maturing,

It's Easy, After All, Not To Be A Writer. Most People Aren't Writers, And Very Little Harm Comes To Them.

Life Is Like Invading Russia. A Blitz Start, Massed Shakos, Plumes Dancing Like A Flustered Henhouse; A Period Of Svelte Progress Recorded In Ebullient Despatches As The Enemy Falls Back; Then The Beginning Of A Long, Morale-sapping Trudge With Rations Getting Shorter And The First Snowflakes Upon Your Face. The Enemy Burns Moscow And You Yield To General January, Whose Fingernails Are Very Icicles. Bitter Retreat. Harrying Cossacks. Eventually You Fall Beneath A Boy-gunner's Grapeshot While Crossing Some Polish River Not Even Marked On Your General's Map.

The More You Learn, The Less You Fear. "learn" Not In The Sense Of Academic Study, But In The Practical Understanding Of Life.

He Thought Of Trying To Explain Something He Had Recently Noticed About Himself: That If Anyone Insulted Him, Or One Of His Friends, He Didn't Really Mind--or Not Much, Anyway. Whereas If Anyone Insulted A Novel, A Story, A Poem That He Loved, Something Visceral And Volcanic Occurred Within Him. He Wasn't Sure What This Might Mean--except Perhaps That He Had Got Life And Art Mixed Up, Back To Front, Upside Down.

Loving Humanity Means As Much, And As Little, As Loving Raindrops, Or Loving The Milky Way. You Say That You Love Humanity? Are You Sure You Aren’t Treating Yourself To Easy Self-congratulation, Seeking Approval, Making Certain You’re On The Right Side?