To Put Failure Behind You,

The People Who Pretend That Dying Is Rather Like Strolling Into The Next Room Always Leave Me Unconvinced. Death, Like Birth, Must Be A Tremendous Event.

To Say That These Men Paid Their Shillings To Watch Twenty-two Hirelings Kick A Ball Is Merely To Say That A Violin Is Wood And Catgut, That Hamlet Is So Much Paper And Ink.

The Canadian Is Often A Baffled Man Because He Feels Different From His British Kindred And His American Neighbours, Sharply Refused To Be Lumped Together With Either Of Them, Yet Cannot Make Plain His Difference.

We Must Beware The Revenge Of The Starved Senses, The Embittered Animal In Its Prison.

Our Trouble Is That We Drink Too Much Tea. I See In This The Slow Revenge Of The Orient, Which Has Diverted The Yellow River Down Our Throats.