For He Will Do As He Do

What Is This Self-inside Us, This Silent Observer, Severe And Speechless Critic, Who Can Terrorize Us, And Urge Us Onto Futile Activity, And In The End, Judge Us Still More Severely For The Errors Into Which His Own Reproaches Drove Us?

In My Beginning Is My End.

It Has Frequently Been Said That We Never Desire What We Think Absolutely Inapprehensible: It Is However True That Some Of Our Sharpest Agonies Are Those In Which The Object Of Desire Is Regarded As Both Possible And Imaginary.

As Things Are, And As Fundamentally They Must Always Be, Poetry Is Not A Career, But A Mug's Game. No Honest Poet Can Ever Feel Quite Sure Of The Permanent Value Of What He Has Written: He May Have Wasted His Time And Messed Up His Life For Nothing.

The Church Must Be Forever Building, For It Is Forever Decaying Within And Attacked From Without.