The Manuscript May Go Forth From The

Words, Living And Ghostly, The Quick And The Dead, Crowd And Jostle The Otherwise Too Empty Corridors Of My Mind ... To Move Among This Bright, Strange, Often Fabulous Herd Of Beings, To Summon Them At My Will, To Fasten Them On To Paper Like Flies, That They May Decorate It, This Is The Pleasure Of Writing.

Words Move, Turning Over Like Tumbling Clowns; Like Certain Books And Like Fleas, They Possess Activity. All Men Equally Have The Right To Say, 'this Word Shall Bear This Meaning,' And See If They Can Get It Across. It Is A Sporting Game, Which All Can Play, Only All Cannot Win.

You Should Always Believe What You Read In The Newspapers, For That Makes Them More Interesting.

How Far Does One Combine Resistance To Over-control With Social Justice, I.e. Tolerable Living For People In General? We Are Too Selfish To Be Trusted, If Left Free, To Give Away Enough To Make People Comfortable Enough To Give Them A Chance. Yet If All This Is Ordered For Us, As To Some Extent It Has To Be, It So Soon Leads To Tyranny. It Is A Very Difficult Problem. If Only Human Beings Had More Pity, Unselfishness, And Justice And Didn't Need Coercion To Treat Each Other Decently.

Here Is One Of The Points About This Planet Which Should Be Remembered; Into Every Penetrable Corner Of It, And Into Most Of The Impenetrable Corners, The English Will Penetrate. They Are Like That; Born Invaders. They Cannot Stay At Home.