... People Miss A Great

In The Last Camp They All Ate Grass, Until The Authorities Forbade Them To Pull It Up. They Were Accustomed To Having The Fruits Of Their Little Communal Gardens Stolen By The Guards, After They Had Done All The Work; But At The Last Camp Everything Was Stolen.

A Broken Heart Is Such A Shabby Thing, Like Poverty And Failure And The Incurable Diseases Which Are Also Deforming. I Hate It And Am Ashamed Of It, And I Must Somehow Repair This Heart And Put It Back Into Its Normal Condition, As A Tough Somewhat Scarred But Operating Organ.

[on The United States:] We Are A Wildly Energetic People In Our Pursuit Of Pleasure, Let Alone In Our Pursuit Of Money, And We Are Very Odd To Look At As We Go About Our Lives.

In The End, In England, When You Want To Find Out How People Are Feeling, You Always Go To The Pubs.

I Do Not See Myself As A Footnote To Someone Else's Life.