He Educated Maurice, Or Rather His Spirit

Our Final Experience, Like Our First, Is Conjectural. We Move Between Two Darkness's.

There's Enough Sorrow In The World, Isn't There, Without Trying To Invent It.

Ah, But You See, I Didn't Want To Be Fair.

A Sentence Begins Quite Simply, Then It Undulates And Expands, Parentheses Intervene Like Quick-set Hedges, The Flowers Of Comparison Bloom, And Three Fields Off, Like A Wounded Partridge, Crouches The Principal Verb, Making One Wonder As One Picks It Up, Poor Little Thing, Whether After All It Was Worth Such A Tramp, So Many Guns, And Such Expensive Dogs, And What, After All, Is Its Relation To The Main Subject, Potted So Gaily Half A Page Back, And Proving Finally To Have Been In The Accusative Case.

I Have No Mystic Faith In The People. I Have In The Individual.