So The More Things Remain The Same,

I Felt That I Was Not, Never Had Been And Never Would Be A Living Part Of This Overpoweringly Solid And Deeply Meaningful World Around Me.

The Summer Of 1943 At Exeter Was As Happy A Time As I Ever Had In My Life.

There Was No Harm In Taking Aim, Even If The Target Was A Dream.

Sarcasm... The Protest Of Those Who Are Weak.

Looking Back Now Across Fifteen Years I Could See With Great Clarity The Fear I Had Lived In, Which Must Mean That In The Interval I Had Succeeded In A Very Important Undertaking: I Must Have Made My Escape From It.