Each Man Kills The Thing He Loves.

Elgar Is Not Manic Enough To Be Russian, Not Witty Or Pointilliste Enough To Be French, Not Harmonically Simple Enough To Be Italian And Not Stodgy Enough To Be German. We Arrive At His Englishry By Pure Elimination.

A Novelist Should Not Be Too Intelligent Either, Although... He May Be Permitted To Be An Intellectual.

But, Brothers, This Biting Of Their Toe-nails Over What Is The Cause Of Badness Is What Turns Me Into A Fine Laughing Malchick. They Don't Go Into What Is The Cause Of Goodness, So Why Of The Other Shop?

All Art Preserves Mysteries Which Aesthetic Philosophers Tackle In Vain.

Welly, Welly, Welly, Welly, Welly, Welly, Well. To What Do I Owe The Extreme Pleasure Of This Surprising Visit?