Was I asleep? Had I slept?
I asked her to look at me and after a few moments - (pause) - after a few moments she did, but the eyes just slits, because of the glare I bent over her to get them in the shadow and they opened. (Pause. Low) Let me in.
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
We are all born; some remain so.
Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.
To be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail, that failure is his world and the shrink from desertion, art and craft, good housekeeping, living.