We Are Minor In Everything But Our

Often When I Write I Am Trying To Make Words Do The Work Of Line And Color. I Have The Painter's Sensitivity To Light. Much Of My Writing Is Verbal Painting.

No Object Is Mysterious. The Mystery Is Your Eye.

There Is No End To The Violations Committed By Children On Children, Quietly Talking Alone.

No, It Is Not Only Our Fate But Our Business To Lose Innocence, And Once We Have Lost That, It Is Futile To Attempt A Picnic In Eden.

Mr. [aldous] Huxley Has Been The Alarming Young Man For A Long Time, A Sort Of Perpetual Clever Nephew Who Can Be Relied On To Flutter The Lunch Party. Whatever Will He Say Next? How Does He Think Of Those Things? He Has Been Deplored Once Or Twice, But Feeling Is In His Favor: He Is Steadily Read. He Is At Once The Truly Clever Person And The Stupid Person's Idea Of The Clever Person; He Is Expected To Be Relentless, To Administer Intellectual Shocks.