The Weasel Under The Cocktail Cabinet.

I've Had My Fill Of These City Guttersnipes--all That Scavenging Scum! They're The Sort Of People, Who, If The Gates Of Heaven Opened To Them, All They'd Feel Would Be A Draught.

There's A Tradition In British Intellectual Life Of Mocking Any Non-political Force That Gets Involved In Politics, Especially Within The Sphere Of The Arts And The Theatre.

I Think It Is The Responsibility Of A Citizen Of Any Country To Say What He Thinks.

I Suggest That Us Foreign Policy Can Still Be Defined As "kiss My Ass Or I'll Kick Your Head In." But Of Course It Doesn't Put It Like That. It Talks Of "low Intensity Conflict..." What All This Adds Up To Is A Disease At The Very Centre Of Language, So That Language Becomes A Permanent Masquerade, A Tapestry Of Lies.

When The Storm Is Over And Night Falls And The Moon Is Out In All Its Glory And All You're Left With Is The Rhythm Of The Sea, Of The Waves, You Know What God Intended For The Human Race, You Know What Paradise Is.