Remorse ... Is One Of The Many

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.

This Alone Is To Be Feared - The Closed Mind, The Sleeping Imagination, The Death Of The Spirit. The Death Of The Body Is To That, I Think, A Little Thing.

I Can't Think Why I Was Cursed With This Inordinate Desire To Write, If The High Gods Weren't Going To Give Me Some More Adquate Means Of Expressing Myself Than That Which My Present Pedestrian Prose Affords.

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.

But Questioning Does Not Mean The End Of Loving, And Loving Does Not Mean The Abnegation Of Intelligence