When A Man Cannot Chose, He Ceases

As We Grow Older, The Memories Of Early Life Brighten, Those Of Maturity And Senescence Grow Dim And Confused.

Well, Well, Well, Well. If It Isn't Fat, Stinking Billygoat Billy-boy In Poison. How Art Thou, Thou Globby Bottle Of Cheap, Stinking Chip-oil? Come And Get One In The Yarbles, If You Have Any Yarbles, You Eunuch Jelly Thou.

There Is, In Fact, Not Much Point In Writing A Novel Unless You Can Show The Possibility Of Moral Transformation, Or An Increase In Wisdom, Operating In Your Chief Character Or Characters.

Reviewers Do Not Read Books With Much Care . . . Their Profession Is More Given To Stupidity And Malice And Literary Ignorance Even Than The Profession Of Novelist.

The State Is Never So Efficient As When It Wants Money.