Through All The World There

People Who Dream When They Sleep At Night Know Of A Special Kind Of Happiness Which The World Of The Day Holds Not, A Placid Ecstasy, And Ease Of Heart, That Are Like Honey On The Tongue.

What Is Man, When You Come To Think Upon Him, But A Minutely Set, Ingenious Machine For Turning With Infinite Artfulness, The Red Wine Of Shiraz Into Urine?

As We Grow Old We Slowly Come To Believe That Everything Will Turn Out Badly For Us, And That Failure Is In The Nature Of Things; But Then We Do Not Much Mind What Happens To Us One Way Or The Other.

I Belong To An Ancient, Idle, Wild And Useless Tribe, Perhaps I Am Even One Of The Last Members Of It, Who For Many Thousands Of Years, In All Countries And Parts Of The World, Has, Now And Again, Stayed For A Time Among The Hard-working Honest People In Real Life, And Sometimes Has Thus Been Fortunate Enough To Create Another Sort Of Reality For Them, Which In Some Way Or Another, Has Satisfied Them. I Am A Storyteller.

I Have A Feeling That Wherever I May Be In The Future, I Will Be Wondering Whether There Is Rain At Ngong.