There Are No Signposts In The Sea.

When, And How, And At What Stage Of Our Development Did Spirituality And Our Strange Notions Of Religion Arise? The Need For Worship Which Is Nothing More Than Our Frightened Refuge Into Propitiation Of A Creator We Do Not Understand? A Detective Story, The Supreme Who-done-it, Written In Indecipherable Hieroglyphics, No Rosetta Stone Supplied By The Consummate Mystifier To Tease Us Poor Fumbling Unravellers Of His Plot.

A Letter, By Its Arrival, Defrauds Us Of A Whole Secret Region Of Our Existence, The Only Region Indeed In Which The True Pleasure Of Life May Be Tasted, The Region Of Imagination, Creative And Protean, The Clouds And Beautiful Shapes Of Whose Heaven Are Destroyed By The Wind Of Reality.

Summer Makes A Silence After Spring.

It Is Necessary To Write, If The Days Are Not To Slip Emptily By. How Else, Indeed, To Clap The Net Over The Butterfly Of The Moment?

Violence, Passion, Indignation, Loyalty, Integrity, Incorruptibility, Shameless Egoism, Generosity, Excitability, Energy, A Hundred Horse-power Drive - None Of It Very Subtle: Ethel [smyth] Didn't Deal In Pastel Shades, She Went For The Stronger Colors, The Blood-red, Anything Deep And Pumping Out Of The Arteries Of The Heart.