I Thought Of Inviting You To My

Time Didn't Heal, But It Anesthetized. The Human Mind Could Only Feel So Much.

I Still Occasionally Need To Struggle But I Now Fear It Less. The Weapons I Fight It With Are Also My Consolations: Books, Music, Food, Wine, Nature.

The Weekend Break Had Begun With The Usual Resentment And Had Continued With Half-repressed Ill Humour. It Was, Of Course, His Fault. He Had Been More Ready To Hurt His Wife's Feelings And Deprive His Daughter Than Inconvenience A Pub Bar Full Of Strangers. He Wished There Could Be One Memory Of His Dead Child Which Wasn't Tainted With Guilt And Regret.

Without The Hope Of Posterity, For Our Race If Not For Ourselves, Without The Assurance That We Being Dead Yet Live, All Pleasures Of The Mind And Senses Sometimes Seem To Me No More Than Pathetic And Crumbling Defences Shored Up Against Our Ruin.

A Man Who Lives With Nature Is Used To Violence And Is Companionable With Death. There Is More Violence In An English Hedgerow Than In The Meanest Streets Of A Great City.