Being Good To People Is The Only

Working Is Bad Enough In The Winter, But In The Summer It Can Become Completely Intolerable. Stuck In Airless Offices, Every Fibre Of Our Being Seems To Cry Out For Freedom. We're Reminded Of Being Stuck In Double Maths While The Birds Sing Outside.

Travelling Fills Me With Dread.

Self-importance Is A Trap, Because The Moment We Start To Think That We Actually Matter Is The Moment When Things Start To Go Wrong. The Truth Is That You Are Supremely Unimportant And Nothing Matters. All Of Man's Striving Is For Nothing; All Effort Is Wasted. To Realize That Everything Is Meaningless Is Tremendously Liberating, Since It Then Leaves Us Completely Free To Create Our Own Lives And Ignore The Plans That Others Have For Us.

Life Has Been Reduced To A Series Of Long Periods Of Boredom In The Office Punctuated By High-octane "experiences" Which You Can Rack Up On Your List Of Things To Do Before You Die. That's Not Really Living: That Is Slavery With The Occasional Circus Thrown In.

Indolence Of Course Is An Absolutely Crucial Part Of The Creative Process: You Do Not Find Poets Sitting In Rows In Cavernous Word Factories, Staring At Screens. They Are Rather To Be Found Lolling On The Sofa Or Strolling Through The Groves, Nursing Their Melancholic Temperaments And Losing Themselves In Extended Reveries.