Writers Should Be Read, But Neither Seen

All Whispers And Echoes From A Past That Is Gone Teem Into The Sleeper's Brain, And He Is With Them, And Part Of Them.

They Are Not Brave, The Days When We Are Twenty-one. They Are Full Of Little Cowardices, Little Fears Without Foundation, And One Is So Easily Bruised, So Swiftly Wounded, One Falls To The First Barbed Word. To-day, Wrapped In The Complacent Armour Of Approaching Middle Age, The Infinitesimal Pricks Of Day By Day Brush One But Lightly And Are Soon Forgotten, But Then—how A Careless Word Would Linger, Becoming A Fiery Stigma, And How A Look, A Glance Over A Shoulder, Branded Themselves As Things Eternal.

Men Are Simpler Than You Imagine My Sweet Child. But What Goes On In The Twisted, Tortuous Minds Of Women Would Baffle Anyone.

Look On Each Day That Comes As A Challenge, As A Test Of Courage. The Pain Will Come In Waves, Some Days Worse Than Others, For No Apparent Reason. Accept The Pain. Little By Little, You Will Find New Strength, New Vision, Born Of The Very Pain And Loneliness Which Seem, At First, Impossible To Master.

Sometimes It’s A Sort Of Indulgence To Think The Worst Of Ourselves. We Say, ‘now I Have Reached The Bottom Of The Pit, Now I Can Fall No Further,’ And It Is Almost A Pleasure To Wallow In The Darkness. The Trouble Is, It’s Not True. There Is No End To The Evil In Ourselves, Just As There Is No End To The Good. It’s A Matter Of Choice. We Struggle To Climb, Or We Struggle To Fall. The Thing Is To Discover Which Way We’re Going.