To Have News Value Is To Have

I Wrote My Will Across The Sky, In Stars

A Skittish Motorbike With A Touch Of Blood In It Is Better Than All The Riding Animals On Earth, Because Of Its Logical Extension Of Our Faculties, And The Hint, The Provocation, To Excess Conferred By Its Honeyed Untiring Smoothness.

Your Success Will Be Proportioned To The Amount Of Mental Effort You Devote To It.

To Make War Upon Rebellion Is Messy And Slow, Like Eating Soup With A Knife.

Suppose We Were (as We Might Be) An Influence, An Idea, A Thing Intangible, Invulnerable, Without Front Or Back, Drifting About Like A Gas? Armies Were Like Plants, Immobile, Firm-rooted, Nourished Through Long Stems To The Head. We Might Be A Vapour, Blowing Where We Listed Ours Should Be A War Of Detachment. We Were To Contain The Enemy By The Silent Threat Of A Vast, Unknown Desert