Venice Is All Sea And Sculpture.

There Is An Abiding Beauty Which May Be Appreciated By Those Who Will See Things As They Are And Who Will Ask For No Reward Except To See.

I Wish Those People Who Write So Glibly About This Being A Holy War And The Orators Who Talk So Much About Going On, No Matter How Long The War Lasts And What It May Mean, Could See A Case Of Musterd Gas - The Poor Things Burnt And Blistered All Over With Great Musterd Coloured Suppurating Blisters, With Blind Eyes, All Sticky And Stuck Together, And Always Fighting For Breath, With Voices A Mere Whisper, Saying Their Throats Are Closing And They Know They Will Choke.

The Pacifist's Task Today Is To Find A Method Of Helping And Healing Which Provides A Revolutionary Constructive Substitute For War.

All That A Pacifist Can Undertake -- But It Is A Very Great Deal -- Is To Refuse To Kill, Injure Or Otherwise Cause Suffering To Another Human Creature, And Untiringly To Order His Life By The Rule Of Love Though Others May Be Captured By Hate.

Nevertheless, Hateful As Saying 'no' Always Is To An Imaginative Person, And Certain As The Offence May Be That It Will Cause To Individuals Whose Own Work Does Not Require Isolated Effort, The Writer Who Is Engaged On A Book Must Learn To Say It. He Must Say It Consistently To All Interrupters; To The Numerous Callers And Correspondents Who Want Him To Speak, Open Bazaars, See Them For 'only' Ten Minutes, Attend Literary Parties, Put People Up, Or Read, Correct And Find Publishers For Semi-literate Manuscripts By His Personal Friends.