I Love You Wildly, Insanely, Infinitely.

How Wonderful To Be Alive, He Thought. But Why Does It Always Hurt?

And When The War Broke Out, Its Real Horrors, Its Real Dangers, Its Menace Of Real Death Were A Blessing Compared With The Inhuman Reign Of The Lie, And They Brought Relief Because They Broke The Spell Of The Dead Letter.

He Was A Natural, And In The Russian Way, Tragically Above These Banalities.

He Realised, More Vividly Than Ever Before, That Art Had Two Constant, Two Unending Preoccupations: It Is Always Meditating Upon Death And It Is Always Thereby Creating Life.

Failure To Love Is Almost Like Murder.