There's No Sauce For Play Like Work.

Christmas Is Not A Season. It Is A Feeling.

I Sometimes Wonder ... If The Land Is Not Destroying The People Who Inhabit It As The People Who Inhabit It Are Destroying The Land. A Magic Continent, A Peculiar Treasure, Stuffed With Riches, Millions In It Are Starving In The Midst Of Plenty.

A Closed Mind Is A Dying Mind.

Living The Past Is A Dull And Lonely Business; Looking Back Strains The Neck Muscles, Causing You To Bump Into People Not Going Your Way.

Your Idea Of Bliss Is To Wake Up On A Monday Morning Knowing You Haven't A Single Engagement For The Entire Week. You Are Cradled In A White Paper Cocoon Tied Up With Typewriter Ribbon.