To Foment Grievance And To Set Men

. . . The Fellow's Got A Bee In His Bonnet. Thinks God's A Secretion Of The Liver--all Right Once In A Way, But There's No Need To Keep On About It. There's Nothing You Can't Prove If Your Outlook Is Only Sufficiently Limited.

Unlike Music Or Poetry Or Painting, Food Rouses No Response In Passionate And Emotional Youth. Only When The Surge Of The Blood Is Quieted Does Gastronomy Come Into Its Own With Philosophy And Theology And The Sterner Delights Of The Mind.

Fantasy Works Inwards Upon Its Author, Blurring The Boundary Between The Visioned And The Actual, And Associating Itself Ever Moreclosely With The Ego, So That The Child Who Has Fantasied Himself A Murderer Ends By Becoming A Loeb Or A Leopold. The Creative Imagination Works Outwards, Steadily Increasing The Gap Between The Visioned And The Actual, Till This Becomes The Great Gulf Fixed Between Art And Nature. Few Writers Of Crime-stories Become Murderers--if Any Do, It Is Not The Result Of Identifying Themselves With Their Murderous Heroes.

But If It Ever Occurs To People To Value The Honor Of The Mind Equally With The Honor Of The Body, We Shall Get A Social Revolution Of A Quite Unparalleled Sort — And Very Different From The Kind That Is Being Made At The Moment.

No, No, There Must Be A Limit To The Baseness Even Of Publishers.