Death Seems To Provide The Minds Of

[n]othing About A Book Is So Unmistakable And So Irreplaceable As The Stamp Of The Cultured Mind. I Don't Care What The Story Is About Or What May Be The Momentary Craze For Books That Appear To Have Been Hammered Out By The Village Blacksmith In A State Of Intoxication; The Minute You Get The Easy Touch Of The Real Craftsman With Centuries Of Civilisation Behind Him, You Get Literature.

While Time Lasts There Will Always Be A Future, And That Future Will Hold Both Good And Evil, Since The World Is Made To That Mingled Pattern.

When Cats Sat Staring Into The Fire They Were Thinking Out Problems.

I Gather That He Nearly Knocked You Down, Damaged Your Property, And Generally Made A Nuisance Of Himself, And That You Instantly Concluded He Must Be Some Relation To Me.

Birth Is Beastly - And Death - And Digestion, If It Comes To That. Sometimes When I Think Of What's Happening Inside Me To A Beautiful Suprème De Sole, With The Caviare In Boats, And The Croûtons And The Jolly Little Twists Of Potato And All The Gadgets - I Could Cry. But There It Is, Don't You Know.