The Worst Mistake I Made Was That

The Only Thing One Can Give An Artist Is Leisure In Which To Work. To Give An Artist Leisure Is Actually To Take Part In His Creation.

In Case I Conk Out, This Is Provisionally What I Have To Do: I Must Clarify Obscurities; I Must Make Clearer Definite Ideas Or Dissociations. I Must Find A Verbal Formula To Combat The Rise Of Brutality--the Principle Of Order Versus The Split Atom.

But The One Thing You Should. Not Do Is To Suppose That When Something Is Wrong With The Arts, It Is Wrong With The Arts Only.

Objectivity And Again Objectivity, And Expression: No Hindside-before-ness, No Straddled Adjectives (as "addled Mosses Dank"), No Tennysonianness Of Speech; Nothing-nothing That You Couldn't, In Some Circumstance, In The Stress Of Some Emotion, Actually Say.

The Rustling Of The Silk Is Discontinued, Dust Drifts Over The Courtyard, There Is Not Sound Of Footfall, And The Leaves Scurry Into Heaps And Lie Still, And She The Rejoicer Of The Heart Is Beneath Them: A Wet Leaf That Clings To The Threshold.