It May Be -- I Hope It

This Is Our Island. It's A Good Island. Until The Grownups Come To Fetch Us We'll Have Fun.

If Faces Were Different When Lit From Above Or Below -- What Was A Face? What Was Anything?

They Accepted The Pleasures Of Morning, The Bright Sun, The Whelming Sea And Sweet Air, As A Time When Play Was Good And Life So Full That Hope Was Not Necessary And Therefore Forgotten.

Put Simply The Novel Stands Between Us And The Hardening Concept Of Statistical Man. There Is No Other Medium In Which We Can Live For So Long And So Intimately With A Character. That Is The Service A Novel Renders.

What Could Be Safer Than The Bus Center With Its Lamps And Wheels?