I Made No More Protests. What Was

There Should Be Two Main Objectives In Ordinary Prose Writing: To Convey A Message And To Include In It Nothing That Will Distract The Reader's Attention Or Check His Habitual Pace Of Reading - He Should Feel That He Is Seated At Ease In A Taxi, Not Riding A Temperamental Horse Through Traffic.

Haunted Gulp Down Your Wine, Old Friends Of Mine, Roar Through The Darkness, Stamp And Sing And Lay Ghost Hands On Everything, But Leave The Noonday's Warm Sunshine To Living Lads For Mirth And Wine. I Met You Suddenly Down The Street, Strangers Assume Your Phantom Faces, You Grin At Me From Daylight Places, Dead, Long Dead, I'm Ashamed To Greet Dead Men Down The Morning Street.

Faults In English Prose Derive Not So Much From Lack Of Knowledge, Intelligence Or Art As From Lack Of Thought, Patience Or Goodwill.

The Sap Of Spring In The Young Wood A-stir Will Celebrate With Green The Mother, And Every Song-bird Shout Awhile For Her; But We Are Gifted, Even In November Rawest Of Seasons, With So Huge A Sense Of Her Nakedly Worn Magnificence We Forget Cruelty And Past Betrayal, Heedless Of Where The Next Bright Bolt May Fall.

For I Now Realize That What Overcame Me That Evening Was A Sudden Awareness Of The Power Of Intuition, The Supra-logic That Cuts Out All Routine Processes Of Thought And Leaps Straight From Problem To Answer.