The Friendships Which Last Are Those Wherein

Imprisoned In Every Fat Man A Thin One Is Wildly Signalling To Be Let Out.

The Worst Vice Of The Solitary Is The Worship Of His Food.

When I Contemplate The Accumulation Of Guilt And Remorse Which, Like A Garbage-can, I Carry Through Life, And Which Is Fed Not Only By The Lightest Action But By The Most Harmless Pleasure, I Feel Man To Be Of All Living Things The Most Biologically Incompetent And Ill-organized. Why Has He Acquired A Seventy Years Life-span Only To Poison It Incurably By The Mere Being Of Himself? Why Has He Thrown Conscience, Like A Dead Rat, To Putrefy In The Well?

The True Function Of A Writer Is To Produce A Masterpiece And No Other Task Is Of Any Consequence.

Like Those Crabs Which Dress Themselves With Seaweed, We Wear Belief And Custom.