Blindfolded by its own history
Comfortable reassurance that one was still his client
Dumb grief which has never learned to moan
Gilt-edged orthodoxy
Glib assurances that naive souls make so easily to others
He have all the pleasure, I have all the work
He was asleep, for he knew not remorse
In work alone man rests from grief
Kind of sporting energy, a defiant spurt
Meaning what one says, so necessary to keep dogs virtuous
Private grudge against Time
Rhythmic nothingness
Such were only embroideries of Fate
Suddenly he sat down to make sure of his own legs
Unholy interest in thus dealing with the lives of my fellow men
Why, then, fear death, which is but night?
Words--those poor husks of sentiment!
CONCERNING LETTERS
/gutenberg/etext01/cnlet10.txt
Concerning Letters
A Novelist's Allegory
Some Platitudes Concerning Drama
Meditation on Finality
Wanted--Schooling
On Our Dislike of Things as They Are
The Windlestraw