Either Move Or Be Moved.

The Garden En Robe De Parade. - Samain Like A Skein Of Loose Silk Blown Against A Wall She Walks By The Railing Of A Path In Kensington Gardens, And She Is Dying Piece-meal Of A Sort Of Emotional Anaemia. And Round About There Is A Rabble Of The Filthy, Sturdy, Unkillable Infants Of The Very Poor. They Shall Inherit The Earth. In Her Is The End Of Breeding. Her Boredom Is Exquisite And Excessive. She Would Like Some One To Speak To Her, And Is Almost Afraid That I Will Commit That Indiscretion.

The Art Of Letters Will Come To An End Before A.d. 2000. I Shall Survive As A Curiosity.

In Our Time, The Curse Is Monetary Illiteracy, Just As Inability To Read Plain Print Was The Curse Of Earlier Centuries.

Where The Dead Walked And The Living Were Made Of Cardboard.

Religion I Have Defined As "another Of Those Numerous Failures Resulting From An Attempt To Popularize Art".