A Library Goes On As

That Is The Operatic Problem; The Singer Must Keep Up A Big Head Of Steam While Trying To Appear Secretive, Or Seductive, Or Consumptive. Some Ingenious Composer Should Write An Opera About A Group Of People Who Were Condemned By A Cruel God To Scream All The Time; It Would Be An Instantaneous Success, And A Triumph Of Versimilitude.

Canada, Having Few Indigenous Prejudices, Has Been Compelled To Import Them From Elsewhere, Duty-free, And It Is The Rare Canadian Who Is Not Shaken, At Some Time In The Year, By "old, Unhappy, Far-off Things / And Battles Long Ago", Like Wordsworth's Solitary Reaper. We Are A Nation Of Immigrants, And Not Happy In Our Minds.

The Young Are Often Accused Of Exaggerating Their Troubles; They Do So, Very Often, In The Hope Of Making Some Impression Upon The Inertia And The Immovability Of The Selfish Old.

Speakers' Nerves Affect Them In Various Ways. Some Tremble, Some Become Frenzied. I Lose All Confidence, And Suffer From A Leaden Oppression That Makes Me Wonder Why I Ever Agreed To Speak At All; The Tomb And The Conqueror Worm Seem Preferable To Delivering The Stupid And Piffling Speech I Have So Carefully Prepared.

Conversation In Its True Meaning Isn't All Wagging The Tongue; Sometimes It Is A Deeply Shared Silence.