Only Love Makes Fruitful The Soul.

Art Is The One Form Of Human Energy In The Whole World, Which Really Works For Union, And Destroys The Barriers Between Man And Man. It Is The Continual, Unconscious Replacement, However Fleeting, Of Oneself By Another; The Real Cement Of Human Life; The Everlasting Refreshment And Renewal. For, What Is Grievous, Dompting, Grim, About Our Lives Is That We Are Shut Up Within Ourselves, With An Itch To Get Outside Ourselves. And To Be Stolen Away From Ourselves By Art Is A Momentary Relaxation From That Itching, A Minute's Profound, And As It Were Secret, Enfranchisement.

The Beginnings And Endings Of All Human Undertakings Are Untidy, The Building Of A House, The Writing Of A Novel, The Demolition Of A Bridge, And, Eminently, The Finish Of A Voyage.

There Are Houses Whose Souls Have Passed Into The Limbo Of Time, Leaving Their Bodies In The Limbo Of London. Such Was Not Quite The Condition Of Timothy's On The Bayswater Road, For Timothy's Soul Still Had One Foot In Timothy Forsyte's Body, And Smither Kept The Atmosphere Unchanging, Of Camphor And Port Wine And House Whose Windows Are Only Opened To Air It Twice A Day.

There Are Moments When Nature Reveals The Passion Hidden Beneath The Careless Calm Of Her Ordinary Moods-violent Spring Flashing White On Almond-blossom Through The Purple Clouds; A Snowy, Moonlit Peak, With Its Single Star, Soaring Up To The Passionate Blue; Or Against The Flames Of Sunset, An Old Yew-tree Standing Dark Guardian Of Some Fiery Secret.

We Are All Familiar With The Argument: Make War Dreadful Enough, And There Will Be No War. And We None Of Us Believe It.