The black arrowed swoop of the moment swung high into the unceilinged future, ten, fifty, sixty years, may be: then, past seeing, up to that warmthless unconsidered mock-time, when nothing shall be left but the memorial that fits all (except, if there be, the most unhappiest) of human kind: I was not, I lived and loved, I am not.
A Fish Dinner in Memison, published 1941.
"The harvest of this world is to the resolute, and he that is infirm of purpose is ground betwixt the upper and the nether millstone"Eric Rücker Eddison
"Can a woman not keep her lover without she study to always please him with pleasure? Pew! then let her give up the game. Or shall my lover think with pleasing of me to win me indeed? Faugh! he payeth me then; doth he think I am for hire?"Eric Rücker Eddison