Ask No Questions And You'll Hear No

Under Cover Of Her Silence He Pressed Her Arm Closely To His Side; And, As They Stood At The Hotel Door, He Felt That They Had Escaped From Their Lives And Duties, Escaped From Home And Friends And Run Away Together With Wild And Radiant Hearts To A New Adventure.

Her Image Had Passed Into His Soul For Ever And No Word Had Broken The Holy Silence Of His Ecstasy. Her Eyes Had Called Him And His Soul Had Leaped At The Call. To Live, To Err, To Fall, To Triumph, To Recreate Life Out Of Life! A Wild Angel Had Appeared To Him, The Angel Of Mortal Youth And Beauty, An Envoy From The Fair Courts Of Life, To Throw Open Before Him In An Instant Of Ecstasy The Gates Of All The Ways Of Error And Glory. On And On And On And On!

In Woman's Womb Word Is Made Flesh But In The Spirit Of The Maker All Flesh That Passes Becomes The Word That Shall Not Pass Away. This Is The Postcreation.

She Respected Her Husband In The Same Way As She Respected The General Post Office, As Something Large, Secure And Fixed: And Though She Knew The Small Number Of His Talents She Appreciated His Abstract Value As A Male.

When I Heard The Word ''stream'' Uttered With Such A Revolting Primness, What I Think Of Is Urine And Not The Contemporary Novel. And Besides, It Isn't New, It Is Far From The Dernier Cri. Shakespeare Used It Continually, Much Too Much In My Opinion, And There's Tristam Shandy, Not To Mention The "agamemnon."