Old Stories Often Turn Out To Be

We Lead Two Lives, And The Half Of Our Soul Is Madness, And Half Heaven Is Lit By A Black Sun. I Say I Am A Man, Is The Other That Hides In Me?

Very Softly, But Very Swiftly, Last, The Man With The Grey Face And The Staring Eyes, Bolted For His Life, Down And Away From The White House. Once In The Road, Free From The Fields And Brakes, He Changed His Run Into A Walk, And He Never Paused Or Stopped, Till He Came With A Gulp Of Relief Into The Ugly Streets Of The Big Industrial Town. He Made Hi Way To The Station At Once, And Found That He Was An Hour Too Soon For The London Express. So, There Was Plenty Of Time For Breakfast; Which Consisted Of Brandy.

Here Then Is The Pattern In My Carpet, The Sense Of The Eternal Mysteries, The Eternal Beauty Hidden Beneath The Crust Of Common And Commonplace Things; Hidden And Yet Burning And Glowing Continually If You Care To Look With Purged Eyes.

For, Usually And Fitly, The Presence Of An Introduction Is Held To Imply That There Is Something Of Consequence And Importance To Be Introduced.

There Are Certain Scenes, Certain Hills And Valleys And Groves Of Pines Which Demand That A Story Shall Be Written About Them. I Would Refine; I Would Say That The Emotions Aroused By These External Things Reverberating In The Heart Are Indeed The Story; Or All That Signifies The Story....we Translate A Hill Into A Tale, Conceive Lovers To Explain A Brook, Turn The Perfect Into The Imperfect.