I Do Not Like January Very Much.

Prose Is A Poor Thing, A Poor Inadequate Thing, Compared With Poetry Which Says So Much More In Shorter Time.

I Cannot Abide The Mr. And Mrs. Noah Attitude Towards Marriage; The Animals Went In Two By Two, Forever Stuck Together With Glue.

It Is A Sad Moment When The First Phlox Appears. It Is The Amber Light Indicating The End Of The Great Burst Of Early Summer And Suggesting That We Must Now Start Looking Forward To Autumn. Not That I Have Any Objection To Autumn As A Season, Full Of Its Own Beauty; But I Just Cannot Bear To See Another Summer Go, And I Recoil From What The First Hint Of Autumn Means.

Gardening Is A Luxury Occupation: An Ornament, Not A Necessity, Of Life.... Fortunate Gardener, Who May Preoccupy Himself Solely With Beauty In These Difficult And Ugly Days! He Is One Of The Few People Left In This Distressful World To Carry On The Tradition Of Elegance And Charm. A Useless Member Of Society, Considered In Terms Of Economics, He Must Not Be Denied His Rightful Place. He Deserves To Share It, However Humbly, With The Painter And Poet.

When, And How, And At What Stage Of Our Development Did Spirituality And Our Strange Notions Of Religion Arise? The Need For Worship Which Is Nothing More Than Our Frightened Refuge Into Propitiation Of A Creator We Do Not Understand? A Detective Story, The Supreme Who-done-it, Written In Indecipherable Hieroglyphics, No Rosetta Stone Supplied By The Consummate Mystifier To Tease Us Poor Fumbling Unravellers Of His Plot.