That There Is A Secret Itself Is

Praise God (or Whatever It Is) From (if Direction Exists) Whom (if Personality Exists) All Blessings (if That Word Corresponds To Any Percept Of Objective Reality) Flow (if Heraclitus And Bergson And Einstein Are Correct In Stating That Everything Is More Or Less Flowing About).

Heaven Deliver Us, What's A Poet? Something That Can't Go To Bed Without Making A Song About It.

She Always Says, My Lord, That Facts Are Like Cows. If You Look Them In The Face Hard Enough They Generally Run Away.

All Conscious Thought Is A Process In Time; So That To Think Consciously About Time Is Like Trying To Use A Foot-rule To Measure Its Own Length.

You're Thinking That People Don't Keep Up Old Jealousies For Twenty Years Or So. Perhaps Not. Not Just Primitive, Brute Jealousy. That Means A Word And A Blow. But The Thing That Rankles Is Hurt Vanity. That Sticks. Humiliation. And We've All Got A Sore Spot We Don't Like To Have Touched.