There Is No More Sombre Enemy Of

A Writer Is In Danger Of Allowing His Talent To Dull Who Lets More Than A Year Go Past Without Finding Himself In His Rightful Place Of Composition, The Small Single Unluxurious Retreat Of The Twentieth Century, The Hotel Bedroom.

Poets Arguing About Modern Poetry: Jackals Snarling Over A Dried-up Well.

It Is Significant Comment On The Victory Of Science Over Magic That Were Someone To Say ‘if I Put This Pill In Your Beer It Will Explode,’ We Might Believe Them; But Were They To Cry ‘if I Pronounce This Spell Over Your Beer It Will Go Flat,’ We Should Remain Incredulous And Paracelsus, The Alchemists, Aleister Crowley And All The Magi Have Lived In Vain. Yet When I Read Science I Turn Magical; When I Study Magic, Scientific.

Melancholy And Remorse Form The Deep Leaden Keel Which Enables Us To Sail Into The Wind Of Reality; We Run Aground Sooner Than The Flat-bottomed Pleasure-lovers But We Venture Out In Weather That Would Sink Them And We Choose Our Direction.

Like Those Crabs Which Dress Themselves With Seaweed, We Wear Belief And Custom.