Books Are Not About Passing The Time.

We Were Put To Dickens As Children But It Never Quite Took. That Unremitting Humanity Soon Had Me Cheesed Off.

I Have Never Understood Disliking For War. It Panders To Instincts Already Catered For Within The Scope Of Any Respectable Domestic Establishment.

To Read Is To Withdraw.to Make Oneself Unavailable. One Would Feel Easier About It If The Pursuit Inself Were Less...selfish.

I Tried To Explain To Her The Significance Of The Great Poet, But Without Much Success, The Waste Land Not Figuring Very Largely In Mam's Scheme Of Things. "the Thing Is," I Said Finally, "he Won The Nobel Prize." "well," She Said, With That Unerring Grasp Of Inessentials Which Is The Prerogative Of Mothers, "i'm Not Surprised. It Was A Beautiful Overcoat."

I Dont Know Whether You've Ever Looked Into A Miner's Eyes For Any Length Of Time, That Is. Because It Is The Loveliest Blue You've Ever Seen. I Think Perhaps That's Why I Live In Ibiza, Because The Blue Of The Mediterranean, You See, Reminds Me Of The Blue Of The Eyes Of Those Doncaster Miners.