There's No Money In Poetry, But Then

When The Immense Drugged Universe Explodes In A Cascade Of Unendurable Colour And Leaves Us Gasping Naked, This Is No More Than The Ectasy Of Chaos: Hold Fast, With Both Hands, To That Royal Love Which Alone, As We Know Certainly, Restores Fragmentation Into True Being. Ecstasy Of Chaos

We Once Discussed Which Were The Cleanest Troops In The Trenches, Taken By Nationalities. We Agreed On A Descending-order Like This: English And German Protestants; Northern Irish, Welsh And Canadians; Irish And German Catholics; Scots; Mohammedan Indians; Algerians; Portugese; Belgians; French. We Put The Belgians And French There For Spite; They Could Not Have Been Dirtier Than The Algerians And The Portugese.

To Know Only One Thing Well Is To Have A Barbaric Mind: Civilization Implies The Graceful Relation Of All Varieties Of Experience To A Central Humane System Of Thought. The Present Age Is Peculiarly Barbaric: Introduce, Say, A Hebrew Scholar To An Ichthyologist Or An Authority On Danish Place Names And The Pair Of Them Would Have No Single Topic In Common But The Weather Or The War (if There Happened To Be A War In Progress, Which Is Usual In This Barbaric Age).

Marriage, Like Money, Is Still With Us; And, Like Money, Progressively Devalued.

Genius Not Only Diagnoses The Situation But Supplies The Answers.