Smells Are The Fallen Angels Of The

What A Joy It Is To Feel The Soft, Springy Earth Under My Feet Once More, To Follow Grassy Roads That Lead To Ferny Brooks Where I Can Bathe My Fingers In A Cataract Of Rippling Notes, Or To Clamber Over A Stone Wall Into Green Fields That Tumble And Roll And Climb In Riotous Gladness!

There Is No Blindness More Insidious, More Fatal That This Race For Profit.

Our Democracy Is But A Name. We Vote? What Does That Mean? It Means That We Choose Between Two Bodies Of Real, Though Not Avowed, Autocrats. We Choose Between Tweedledum And Tweedledee.… You Ask For Votes For Women. What Good Can Votes Do When Ten-elevenths Of The Land Of Great Britain Belongs To 200,000 And Only One-eleventh To The Rest Of The 40,000,000? Have Your Men With Their Millions Of Votes Freed Themselves From This Injustice?

My Optimism Is Grounded In Two Worlds, Myself And What Is About Me. I Demand That The World Be Good, And Lo, It Obeys. I Proclaim The World Good, And Facts Range Themselves To Prove My Proclamation Overwhelmingly True.

More Than At Any Other Time, When I Hold A Beloved Book In My Hand My Limitations Fall From Me, My Spirit Is Free.