What Grape To Keep Its Place In

Green Leaves On A Dead Tree Is Our Epitaph-green Leaves, Dear Reader, On A Dead Tree.

The Refractory Pupil Of Socrates, Aristippus The Cyrene, Who Believed Happiness To Be The Sum Of Particular Pleasures And Golden Moments And Not, As Epicurus, A Prolonged Intermediary State Between Ecstasy And Pain.

The English Language Is Like A Broad River On Whose Bank A Few Patient Anglers Are Sitting, While, Higher Up, The Stream Is Being Polluted By A String Of Refuse-barges Tipping Out Their Muck.

Imprisoned In Every Fat Man A Thin One Is Wildly Signalling To Be Let Out.

Beneath A Mask Of Selfish Tranquility Nothing Exists Except Bitterness And Boredom.