We Talked For Hours. He Talked And

Men Love War Because It Allows Them To Look Serious. Because It Is The One Thing That Stops Women Laughing At Them.

We All Write Poems; It Is Simply That Poets Are The Ones Who Write In Words.

I Must Fight With My Weapons. Not His. Not Selfishness And Brutality And Shame And Resentment.

The Supposed Great Misery Of Our Century Is The Lack Of Time; Our Sense Of That, Not A Disinterested Love Of Science, And Certainly Not Wisdom, Is Why We Devote Such A Huge Proportion Of The Ingenuity And Income Of Our Societies To Finding Faster Ways Of Doing Things - As If The Final Aim Of Mankind Was To Grow Closer Not To A Perfect Humanity, But To A Perfect Lightning-flash.

I Am Infinitely Strange To Myself.