And In Fact, I Think One Of

He'll Be Delivered From Madness. What Then? He'll Feel Himself Acceptable! What Then? Do You Think Feelings Like His Can Be Simply Re-attached, Like Plasters? Stuck On To Other Objects We Select? Look At Him! ... My Desire Might Be To Make This Boy An Ardent Husband - A Caring Citizen - A Worshipper Of Abstract And Unifying God. My Achievement, However, Is More Likely To Make A Ghost!

And In Fact, I Think One Of The Best Guides To Telling You Who You Are, And I Think Children Use It All The Time For This Purpose, Is Fantasy.

Everything We Feel Is Made Of Time. All The Beauties Of Life Are Shaped By It.

All Reined Up In Old Language And Old Assumptions, Straining To Jump Clean-hoofed On To A Whole New Track Of Being I Only Suspect Is There. I Can't See It, Because My Educated, Average Head Is Being Held At The Wrong Angle. I Can't Jump Because The Bit Forbids It, And My Own Basic Force - My Horsepower, If You Like - Is Too Little.

Worship Isn't Destructive, Martin. I Know That. I Don't. I Only Know It's The Core Of His Life. What Else Has He Got? He Can Hardly Read. He Knows No Physics Or Engineering To Make To World Real For Him. No Paintings To Show Him How Others Have Enjoyed It. No Music Except Television Jingles. No History Except Tales From A Desperate Mother. No Friends. Not One Kid To Give Him A Joke, Or Make Him Know Himself More Moderately. He's A Modern Citizen For Whom Society Doesn't Exist.