I Am Fierce For Work.

Oh, Time Betrays Us. Time Is The Great Enemy.

Youth Knows No Remedy For Grief But Death.

What With The Reviews Of Critics, The Sarcasms Of One's Friends, The Reproaches Of One's Own Taste, There's Precious Little Peace After Publishing A Book.

The Damned Book I Am Writing Is Like The Driveling Of A Weak-kneed Sea Calf. If I Were Sufficiently Strong Minded, I Should Tear It Up An Start Again. But I Don't.

It's The Things You Don't Do, Not The Things You Do, You Feel Most Sorry For.