It Seemed To Me As

Though Thousands Of People Indulge Themselves In It Regularly, And Even Develop A Taste For It, There Is No Doubt In My Mind (and That Of Scientists Whom I Employ To Prove It) That Work Is A Dangerous And Destructive Drug, And Should Be Called By Its Right Name, Which Is Fatigue.

We Live In A World Where Bulk Is Equated With Quality.

You Would Not Serve Junk Food At A Banquet, And Your Book Must Be A Banquet. Get Your Language From Swift, Not From Shopsy's.

Oho, Now I Know What You Are. You Are An Advocate Of Useful Knowledge.... Well, Allow Me To Introduce Myself To You As An Advocate Of Ornamental Knowledge. You Like The Mind To Be A Neat Machine, Equipped To Work Efficiently, If Narrowly, And With No Extra Bits Or Useless Parts. I Like The Mind To Be A Dustbin Of Scraps Of Brilliant Fabric, Odd Gems, Worthless But Fascinating Curiosities, Tinsel, Quaint Bits Of Carving, And A Reasonable Amount Of Healthy Dirt. Shake The Machine And It Goes Out Of Order; Shake The Dustbin And It Adjusts Itself Beautifully To Its New Position.

The Result Of A Single Action May Spread Like The Circles That Expand When A Stone Is Thrown Into A Pond, Until They Touch Places And People Unguessed At By The Person Who Threw The Stone.