Don't You Know That Every

The Truth Is Not A Crystal That Can Be Slipped Into One's Pocket, But An Endless Current Into Which One Falls Headlong.

Wordsworth's Particular Grace, His Charisma, As Theologians Say, Has Been Granted In Equal Measure To So Very Few Men Since Time Was--to Plato And Who Else? The Crucial Thing Is Never What We Do, But Always What We Do Right After That. What Matters Is Always The Next Step!

It Was The Tenderness Mingled With Melancholy Which We Bring To A Time That Belongs Irrevocably To The Past, When A Pale, Delicate Shadow Rises From It Bearing The Lilies Of The Dead, And In It We Find A Forgotten Likeness To Ourselves. And That Faint, Wistful Shadow, That Pale Scent, Seemed To Vanish Away Into A Wide, Full, Warm Stream - The Life That Now Lay Open Before Him.

Layer By Layer Art Strips Life Bare.

Writing [for The Novelist] Is Not An Activity, But A Condition. That Is Why One Simply Can't Resume The Work When One Has A Job And A Free Half-day. Reading Is The Conveyance Of This Condition.