The World, With All Its

But Questioning Does Not Mean The End Of Loving, And Loving Does Not Mean The Abnegation Of Intelligence

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.

I Can't Think Why I Was Cursed With This Inordinate Desire To Write, If The High Gods Weren't Going To Give Me Some More Adquate Means Of Expressing Myself Than That Which My Present Pedestrian Prose Affords.

Is This The Final Treachery Of Time, That The Old Become A Burden Upon The Young?

If You Are Rich, You Have Lovely Cars, And Jars Full Of Flowers, And Books In Rows, And A Wireless, And The Best Sort Of Gramophone And Meringues For Supper.