I Have A Superstition That If I

In England, Life Is A Long Process Of Composing Oneself.

For Most People It's Easier To Support An Eminent Person In Deserved Disgrace Than An Obscure One Who Has Been Wronged.

Going To Europe, Someone Had Written, Was About As Final As Going To Heaven. A Mystical Passage To Another Life, From Which No-one Returned The Same. Those Returning In Such Ships Were Invincible, For They Had Managed It And Could Reflect Ever After On Anne Hathaway's Cottage Or The Tower Of London With A Confidence That Did Generate At Sydney. There Was Nothing Mythic At Sydney; Momentous Objects, Beings And Events All Occurred Abroad Or In The Elsewhere Of Books.

It Is The Impulse Of Our Century, With Its Nearly Religious Belief In Magnitude, To Fling An Institution Into Every Void.

That Was The Trouble With Experience; It Taught You That Most People Were Capable Of Anything, So That Loyalty Was Never Quite On Firm Ground -- Or, Rather, Became A Matter Of Pardoning Offenses Instead Of Denying Their Existence.