I Am Writing A Book About The

I Shoot The Hippopotamus With Bullets Made Of Platinum, Because If I Use The Leaden One His Hide Is Sure To Flatten Em.

Great Artistic Talent In Any Direction... Is Hardly Inherent To The Man. It Comes And Goes; It Is Often Possessed Only For A Short Phase In His Life; It Hardly Ever Colors His Character As A Whole And Has Nothing To Do With The Moral And Intellectual Stuff Of The Mind And Soul. Many Great Artists, Perhaps Most Great Artists, Have Been Poor Fellows Indeed, Whom To Know Was To Despise.

Let Us Then Repeat And Firmly Fix This Main Point: The Evil, The Root Evil, Of That To Which The Term Capitalism Has Come To Be Applied, Is Neither Its Functioning For Profit Nor Its Dependence Upon Legally Protected Private Property; But The Presence Of A Proletariat, That Is Of Men Possessing Political Freedom, But Dispossessed Of Economic Freedom, And Existing In Such Large Numbers In Any Community As To Determine The Tone Of All That Community.

There Are Few Greater Temptations On Earth Than To Stay Permanently At Oxford In Meditation, And To Read All The Books In The Bodlean.

The Rich Arrived In Pairs And Also In Rolls Royces; They Talked Of Their Affairs In Loud And Strident Voices... The Poor Arrived In Fords, Whose Features They Resembled; They Laughed To See So Many Lords And Ladies All Assembled. The People In Between Looked Underdone And Harassed, And Our Of Place And Mean, And Horribly Embarrassed.