The Love Of Truth Lies At The

It Is Those Pent-up, Craving Children Who Make All The Wars And All The Horrors And All The Art And All The Beauty And Discovery In Life, Because They Are Trying To Achieve What Lay Beyond Their Grasp Before They Were Five Years Old.

You're All Mad For Words. Words Are Just Farts From A Lot Of Fools Who Have Swallowed Too Many Books. Give Me Things!

Moderation, The Golden Mean, The Aristonmetron, Is The Secret Of Wisdom And Of Happiness. But It Does Not Mean Embracing An Unadventurous Mediocrity; Rather It Is An Elaborate Balancing Act, A Feat Of Intellectual Skill Demanding Constant Vigilance. Its Aim Is A Reconciliation Of Opposites.

Many Authors Write Like Amateur Blacksmiths Making Their First Horseshoe; The Clank Of The Anvil, The Stench Of The Scorched Leather Apron, The Sparks And The Cursing Are Palpable, And This Appeals To Those Who Rank "sincerity" Very High. Nabokov Is More Like A Master Swordsmith Making A Fine Blade; Nothing Is Amiss, Nothing Is Too Much, There Is No Fuss, And The Finished Product Must Be Handled With Great Care, Or It Will Cut You Badly.

Every Man Makes His Own Summer. The Season Has No Character Of Its Own, Unless One Is A Farmer With A Professional Concern For The Weather.