Economics And Ethics Have Little In Common.

I Am Seventy Years Old, A Gray Age Weighted With Uncompromising Biblical Allusions. It Ought To Have A Gray Outlook, But It Hasn't, Because A Glint Of Dazzling Sunshine Is Dancing Merrily Ahead Of Me.

There Was No Escape From The Letter-writer Who, A Hundred Or A Hundred And Twenty-five Years Ago, Captured A Coveted Correspondent. It Would Have Been As Easy To Shake Off An Octopus Or A Boa-constrictor.

The Worst In Life, We Are Told, Is Compatible With The Best In Art. So Too The Worst In Life Is Compatible With The Best In Humour.

Personally, I Do Not Believe That It Is The Duty Of Any Man Or Woman To Write A Novel. In Nine Cases Out Of Ten, There Would Be Greater Merit In Leaving It Unwritten.

A Man Who Owns A Dog Is, In Every Sense Of The Words, Its Master; The Term Expresses Accurately Their Mutual Relations. But It Is Ridiculous When Applied To The Limited Possession Of A Cat.