She turns everything she gives into a Blessing; for she makes it first—indispensable. She delays that we may long for her, she hastens on that we may not be sated with her. She has no Speech nor Language; but she creates Tongues and Hearts through which she feels and speaks. Her Crown is Love. Only through Love can we approach her. She creates Gulfs between all Beings and all wish to intertwine. She has isolated all that she may draw all together. With a few Draughts from the Beaker of Love she compensates a Life full of Toil. She is Everything. She rewards herself and punishes herself, rejoices and torments herself. She is harsh and gentle, lovely and terrible, powerless and omnipotent. Everything is ever present in her. Past and Future she knows not—The Present is her Eternity. She is generous. I glorify her with all her Works. She is wise and calm. One drags no Explanation from her by Force, wrests no gift from her which she does not freely give. She is cunning but for a good purpose and it is best not to observe her Craft. She is complete and yet ever uncomplete; so as she goes on she can ever go on. To Everyone she appears in special Form. She conceals herself behind a thousand Names and Terms and yet always is the same. She has placed me here; she will lead me hence;— I confide myself to her. She may do with me what she will: she will not despise her Work. I speak not of her. No, what is true and what is false; She herself has spoken all; All the Fault is hers; hers is all the Glory. My Friend, the Incurable IV. Pro domo mea: on the vice of simplicity. John Cowper Powys—a revelation One of my critics sent me a New Year’s wish and admonition: “You are hectic. Why not see things as they are? You must learn to be simple.” This is another attempt on the part of my good-wishers to cure me, in defiance of my resolute declaration that I cannot and do not want to be cured. Furthermore, I am in the position of a normal lunatic who considers the whole world, except himself, insane; not only do I refuse to learn the art of being simple, but I regard simplicity as a vice, a defect, a misery. What is simplicity? I cannot define things; definitions are absurd, limiting, simplifying. In this case perhaps I ought to adopt the method of the school-boy who defined salt as “what makes potatoes nasty when not applied to.” It is an English joke which I have tried with discouraging results on the American sense of humor; it suits my purpose nevertheless. How would this do: “Simplicity is that which makes life dull when applied to?” No; decidedly, I cannot think in Procrustean formulas.