We Want Someone To Bring Us The

There Is Nothing More Distressing Or Tiresome Than A Writer Standing In Front Of An Audience And Reading His Work.

...mementos Of This World, In Which The Things Worth Being Were So Easily Exchanged For The Things Worth Having.

He Was Doing Missionary Work. But From The Outset He Had Little Success In Convincing His Charges Of Their Responsibility For A Sin Committed At The Beginning Of Creation, One Which, As They Understood It, They Were Ready And Capable (indeed, They Carried Charms To Assure It) Of Duplicating Themselves. He Did No Better Convincing Them That A Man Had Died On A Tree To Save Them All: An Act Which One Old Indian, If Gwyon Had Translated Correctly, Regarded As "rank Presumption".

What’s Any Artist, But The Dregs Of His Work?

What's Any Artist, But The Dregs Of His Work? The Human Shambles That Follows It Around. What's Left Of The Man When The Work's Done But A Shambles Of Apology.