Give Me A Bed And A Book

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

Whiskey Has Killed More Men Than Bullets, But Most Men Would Rather Be Full Of Whiskey Than Bullets.

Eat With The Rich, But Go To The Play With The Poor, Who Are Capable Of Joy.

There Are Few Sorrows In Which A Good Income Is Of No Avail.

The Word Snob Belongs To The Sour-grape Vocabulary.