Beneath A Mask Of Selfish Tranquility Nothing

Nothing Dates Like Hate And In Literature A Little Of It Goes A Very Long Way.

Dining Out Is A Vice, A Dissipation Of Spirit Punished By Remorse. We Eat, Drink, And Talk A Little Too Much, Abuse All Our Friends, Belch Out Our Literary Preferences And Are Egged On By Accomplices In The Audience To Acts Of Mental Exhibitionism. Such Evenings Cannot Fail To Diminish Those Who Take Part In Them. They End On Monkey Hill.

Idleness Is Only A Coarse Name For My Infinite Capacity For Living In The Present.

The Headmistress Was An Able Instructress In French And History And We Learned With Her As Fast As Fear Could Teach Us.

Better To Write For Yourself And Have No Public, Than To Write For The Public And Have No Self.