We Cannot Understand All The Traits We

I Always Knew Who I Was And Where I Had Come From. I Was Not Looking For A Home In Other People's Lands.

Home Is, I Suppose Just A Child's Idea. A House At Night, And A Lamp In The House. A Place To Feel Safe.

What Matters In The End In Literature, What Is Always There, Is The Truly Good. And- Though Played Out Forms Can Throw Up Miraculous Sports Like The Importance Of Being Earnest Or Decline And Fall- What Is Good Is Always What Is New, In Both Form And Content. What Is Good Forgets Whatever Models It Might Have Had, And Is Unexpected; We Have To Catch It On The Wing.

The World Is What It Is; Men Who Are Nothing, Who Allow Themselves To Become Nothing, Have No Place In It.

The Past Has To Be Seen To Be Dead; Or The Past Will Kill.