What With The Reviews Of Critics, The

Public Work Brings A Vicarious But Assured Sense Of Immortality. We May Be Poor, Weak, Timid, In Debt To Our Landlady, Bullied By Our Nieces, Stiff In The Joints, Shortsighted And Distressed; We Shall Perish, But The Cause Endures; The Cause Is Great.

We're So Busy Resigning Ourselves To The Inevitable That We Don't Even Ask If It Is Inevitable. We've Got To Have Courage, To Take Our Future Into Our Hands. If The Law Is Oppressive, We Must Change The Law. If Tradition Is Obstructive, We Must Break Tradition. If The System Is Unjust, We Must Reform The System.

The Damned Book I Am Writing Is Like The Driveling Of A Weak-kneed Sea Calf. If I Were Sufficiently Strong Minded, I Should Tear It Up An Start Again. But I Don't.

Those Who Prepare For War Get It.

Is This The Final Treachery Of Time, That The Old Become A Burden Upon The Young?