I Am, Incidentally, The Only Writer To

Your Heart Becomes Gangrenous In Your Body When You Go Against Your Talent.

At Its Grandest, Political Correctness Is An Attempt To Accelerate Evolution.

For Myself And My Loved Ones, I Want The Heat, Which Comes At The Speed Of Light. I Don't Want To Have To Hang About For The Blast, Which Idles Along At The Speed Of Sound.

The Only Writer Who Gives Me Unfeigned Pleasure Is P.g. Wodehouse. And Even Him I Find A Bit Heavy. He Takes A Lot Out Of Me. Scratching My Hair, With Soft Whistles, With Lips Aquiver, I Frown Over Sunset At Blandings.

He Didn't Want To Please His Readers. He Wanted To Stretch Them Until They Twanged.