The One Way To Get

He [george Orwell] Would Not Blow His Nose Without Moralising On Conditions In The Handkerchief Industry.

Dining Out Is A Vice, A Dissipation Of Spirit Punished By Remorse. We Eat, Drink, And Talk A Little Too Much, Abuse All Our Friends, Belch Out Our Literary Preferences And Are Egged On By Accomplices In The Audience To Acts Of Mental Exhibitionism. Such Evenings Cannot Fail To Diminish Those Who Take Part In Them. They End On Monkey Hill.

The Civilization Of One Epoch Becomes The Manure Of The Next.

In My Religion, There Would Be No Exclusive Doctrine; All Would Be Love, Poetry, And Doubt.

The More I See Of Life The More I Perceive That Only Through Solitary Communion With Nature Can One Gain An Idea Of Its Richness And Meaning.