Contrast Is The Dramatist's Method.

Yet In The Blood Of Man There Is A Tide, An Old Sea-current, Rather, That Is Somehow Akin To The Twilight, Which Brings Him Rumours Of Beauty From However Far Away, As Drift-wood Is Found At Sea From Islands Not Yet Discovered; And This Spring-tide Or Current That Visits The Blood Of Man Comes From The Fabulous Quarter Of His Lineage, From The Legendary, Of Old; It Takes Him Out To The Woodlands, Out To The Hills; He Listens To Ancient Song.

There Is No Beauty Or Romance Or Mystery In The Sea Except For The Men That Sail Abroad Upon It, And Those Who Stay At Home And Dream Of Them.

And You Who Sought For Magic In Your Youth But Desire It Not In Your Age, Know That There Is A Blindness Of Spirit Which Comes From Age, More Black Than The Blindness Of Eye, Making A Darkness About You Across Which Nothing May Be Seen, Or Felt, Or Known, Or In Any Way Apprehended.

A Man Is A Very Small Thing, And The Night Is Very Large And Full Of Wonders.

I Have Lived To See That Being Seventeen Is No Protection Against Becoming Seventy, But To Know This Needs The Experience Of A Lifetime, For No Imagination Copes With It.