The Man Who Never In His Life

We Visit Bookshops Not So Often To Buy Any One Special Book, But Rather To Rediscover, In The Happier And More Expressive Words Of Others, Our Own Encumbered Soul.

The World, In Its Sheer Exuberance Of Kindness, Will Try To Bury The Poet With Warm And Lovely Human Trivialities. It Will Even Ask Him To Autograph Books.

Perhaps This Is An Age When Men Think Bravely Of The Human Spirit; For Surely They Have A Strange Lust To Lay It Bare.

The Real Purpose Of Books Is To Trap The Mind Into Doing Its Own Thinking.

Beware Of The Conversationalist Who Adds "in Other Words." He Is Merely Starting Afresh.