Peace ... Is A Morbid Condition, Due

Classical And Romantic: Private Language Of A Family Quarrel, A Dead Dispute Over The Distribution Of Emphasis Between Man And Nature.

In The Dream Of Approaching Forty I Saw Myself As About To Die And Realized That I Was No Longer Myself, But A Creature Inhabited Entirely By Parasites, As A Caterpillar Is Occupied By The Grubs Of The Ichneumon Fly. Gin, Whisky, Sloth, Fear, Guilt, Tobacco, Had Made Themselves My Inquilines; Alcohol Sloshed About Within, While Tendrils Of Melon And Vine Grew Out Of Ears And Nostrils; My Mind Was A Worn Gramophone Record, My True Self Was Such A Ruin As To Seem Non-existent, And All This Had Happened In The Last Three Years.

In My Religion All Believers Would Stop Work At Sundown And Have A Drink Together.

We Cannot Be Happy Until We Can Love Ourselves Without Egotism And Our Friends Without Tyranny.

The Headmistress Was An Able Instructress In French And History And We Learned With Her As Fast As Fear Could Teach Us.