These moments of escape are not to be despised. They come too seldom.
After all, what is a lovely phrase? One that has mopped up as much Truth as it can hold.
On or about December 1910, human character changed.
Tom's great yellow bronze mask all draped upon an iron framework. An inhibited, nerve-drawn; dropped face - as if hung on a scaffold of heavy private brooding; and thought.
I feel that by writing I am doing what is far more necessary than anything else.
For what Harley Street specialist has time to understand the body, let alone the mind or both in combination, when he is a slave to thirteen thousand a year?