Oh, Time Betrays Us. Time Is The

I Would, If I Could, Always Feed To Music. The Singularly Graceless Action Of Thus Filling One's Body With Roots And Dead Animals And Powdered Grain Is Given Some Significance Then. One Can Perform As A Ritual What One Is Shamed To Do As A Utilitarian Action.

It Is The Brevity Of Life Which Makes It Tolerable; Its Experiences Have Value Because They Have An End.

I Am Much Perturbed By This Business Of Sickness. Our Bodies Seem So Easily To Leap Into The Saddle Where Our Minds Should Be. People Who Are Ill Become Changelings.

Public Work Brings A Vicarious But Assured Sense Of Immortality. We May Be Poor, Weak, Timid, In Debt To Our Landlady, Bullied By Our Nieces, Stiff In The Joints, Shortsighted And Distressed; We Shall Perish, But The Cause Endures; The Cause Is Great.

The Damned Book I Am Writing Is Like The Driveling Of A Weak-kneed Sea Calf. If I Were Sufficiently Strong Minded, I Should Tear It Up An Start Again. But I Don't.