Everybody's Tragedy Is Somebody's Nuisance.

I Am Much Perturbed By This Business Of Sickness. Our Bodies Seem So Easily To Leap Into The Saddle Where Our Minds Should Be. People Who Are Ill Become Changelings.

Oh, Time Betrays Us. Time Is The Great Enemy.

I Can't Think Why I Was Cursed With This Inordinate Desire To Write, If The High Gods Weren't Going To Give Me Some More Adquate Means Of Expressing Myself Than That Which My Present Pedestrian Prose Affords.

Progress. There's A Good Deal Too Much O' This Progress About Nowadays, An', What's More, It'll Have To Stop.

If You Are Rich, You Have Lovely Cars, And Jars Full Of Flowers, And Books In Rows, And A Wireless, And The Best Sort Of Gramophone And Meringues For Supper.