Heroics That Don't Come Off Are The

Britain Possesses No Climate, Only Weather.

Fantasy Works Inwards Upon Its Author, Blurring The Boundary Between The Visioned And The Actual, And Associating Itself Ever Moreclosely With The Ego, So That The Child Who Has Fantasied Himself A Murderer Ends By Becoming A Loeb Or A Leopold. The Creative Imagination Works Outwards, Steadily Increasing The Gap Between The Visioned And The Actual, Till This Becomes The Great Gulf Fixed Between Art And Nature. Few Writers Of Crime-stories Become Murderers--if Any Do, It Is Not The Result Of Identifying Themselves With Their Murderous Heroes.

We Are Much Too Much Inclined In These Days To Divide People Into Permanent Categories, Forgetting That A Category Only Exists For Its Special Purpose And Must Be Forgotten As Soon As That Purpose Is Served.

There Is One Vast Human Experience That Confronts Us So Formidably That We Cannot Pretend To Overlook It. There Is No Solution To Death. There Is No Means Whatever Whereby You Or I, By Taking Thought, Can Solve This Difficulty In Such A Manner That It No Longer Exists.

How Can I Find The Words? Poets Have Taken Them All And Left Me With Nothing To Say Or Do" "except To Teach Me For The First Time What They Meant.