There's No Police Like Holmes.

What Did It Avail To Pray When He Knew His Soul Lusted After Its Own Destruction?

Under Cover Of Her Silence He Pressed Her Arm Closely To His Side; And, As They Stood At The Hotel Door, He Felt That They Had Escaped From Their Lives And Duties, Escaped From Home And Friends And Run Away Together With Wild And Radiant Hearts To A New Adventure.

But We Are Living In A Sceptical And, If I May Use The Phrase, A Thought-tormented Age: And Sometimes I Fear That This New Generation, Educated Or Hyper-educated As It Is, Will Lack Those Qualities Of Humanity, Of Hospitality, Of Kindly Humour Which Belonged To An Older Day.

There Is Not Past, No Future; Everything Flows In An Eternal Present.

The Personality Of The Artist, At First A Cry Or A Cadence Or A Mood And Then A Fluid, And Lambent Narrative, Finally Refines Itself Out Of Existence, Impersonalises Itself, So To Speak. The Aesthetic Image In The Dramatic Form Is Life Purified In And Reprojected From The Human Imagination. The Mystery Of Aesthetic Like That Of Material Creation Is Accomplished. The Artist, Like The God Of The Creation, Remains Within Or Behind Or Beyond Or Above His Handiwork, Invisible, Refined Out Of Existence, Indifferent, Paring His Fingernails.