A Great Artist Is Never

Up In This Air You Breathed Easily, Drawing In A Vital Assurance And Lightness Of Heart. In The Highlands You Woke Up In The Morning And Thought: Here I Am, Where I Ought To Be.

It Is A Sad Hardship And Slavery To People Who Live In Towns, That In Their Movements They Know Of One Dimension Only; They Walk Along The Line As If They Were Led On A String. The Transition From The Line To The Plane Into The Two Dimensions, When You Wander Across A Field Or Through A Wood, Is A Splendid Liberation To The Slaves, Like The French Revolution. But In The Air You Are Taken Into The Full Freedom Of The Three Dimensions; After Long Ages Of Exile And Dreams The Homesick Heart Throws Itself Into The Arms Of Space.

In Africa, When You Pick Up A Book Worth Reading, Out Of The Deadly Consignments Which Good Ships Are Always Being Made To Carry Out All The Way From Europe, You Read It As An Author Would Like His Book To Be Read, Praying To God That He May Have It In Him To Go On As Beautifully As He Has Begun. Your Mind Runs, Transported, Upon A Fresh Deep Green Track.

There Is Hardly Any Other Sphere In Which Prejudice And Superstition Of The Most Horrific Kind Have Been Retained So Long As In That Of Women, And Just As It Must Have Been An Inexpressable Relief For Humanity When It Shook Off The Burden Of Religious Prejudice And Superstition, I Think It Will Be Truly Glorious When Women Become Real People And Have The Whole World Open Before Them.

You Must Not Think That I Feel, In Spite Of It Having Ended In Such Defeat, That My "life Has Been Wasted" Here, Or That I Would Exchange It With That Of Anyone I Know.