Novels Seem To Me To

... Everyone Young Going Down The Long Slide To Happiness, Endlessly.

Above All, Though, Children Are Linked To Adults By The Simple Fact That They Are In Process Of Turning Into Them. For This They May Be Forgiven Much. Children Are Bound To Be Inferior To Adults, Or There Is No Incentive To Grow Up.

Here Silence Stands Like Heat. Here Leaves Unnoticed Thicken, Hidden Weeds Flower, Neglected Waters Quicken, Luminously-peopled Air Ascends; And Past The Poppies Bluish Neutral Distance Ends The Land Suddenly Beyond A Beach Of Shapes And Shingle. Here Is Unfenced Existence: Facing The Sun, Untalkative, Out Of Reach.

Death: The Anaesthetic From Which None Come Round.

Slowly Light Strengthens, And The Room Takes Shape. It Stands Plain As A Wardrobe, What We Know, Have Always Known, Know That We Can't Escape, Yet Can't Accept. One Side Will Have To Go. Meanwhile Telephones Crouch, Getting Ready To Ring In Locked-up Offices, And All The Uncaring Intricate Rented World Begins To Rouse. The Sky Is White As Clay, With No Sun. Work Has To Be Done. Postmen Like Doctors Go From House To House.