The True Work Of Art Is The

Young Writers If They Are To Mature Require A Period Of Between Three And Seven Years In Which To Live Down Their Promise. Promise Is Like The Mediaeval Hangman Who After Settling The Noose, Pushed His Victim Off The Platform And Jumped On His Back, His Weight Acting A Drop While His Jockeying Arms Prevented The Unfortunate From Loosening The Rope. When He Judged Him Dead He Dropped To The Ground.

Failure On The Other Hand Is Infectious. The World Is Full Of Charming Failures (for All Charming People Have Something To Conceal, Usually Their Total Dependence On The Appreciation Of Others) And Unless The Writer Is Quite Ruthless With These Amiable Footlers, They Will Drag Him Down With Them.

Melancholy And Remorse Forms The Deep Leaden Keel Which Enables Us To Sail Into The Wind Of Reality.

Happiness Lies In The Fulfillment Of The Spirit Through The Body.

The Reward Of Art Is Not Fame Or Success But Intoxication.