1. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. “Act three. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. —Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. Unable to withstand this appeal, Thames gave the required promise, adding, —"Oh! Winny, I wish Mr.
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