History Does Not Repeat Itself. The Historians

Not Philosophy, After All, Not Humanity, Just Sheer Joyous Power Of Song, Is The Primal Thing In Poetry.

Of All The Objects Of Hatred, A Woman Once Loved Is The Most Hateful.

The Dullard's Envy Of Brilliant Men Is Always Assuaged By The Suspicion That They Will Come To A Bad End.

Few, As I Have Said, Are The Humorists Who Can Induce This State. To Master And Dissolve Us, To Give Us The Joy Of Being Worn Down And Tired Out With Laughter, Is A Success To Be Won By No Man Save In Virtue Of A Rare Staying-power. Laughter Becomes Extreme Only If It Be Consecutive. There Must Be No Pauses For Recovery. Touch-and-go Humour, However Happy, Is Not Enough. The Jester Must Be Able To Grapple His Theme And Hang On To It, Twisting It This Way And That, And Making It Yield Magically All Manner Of Strange And Precious Things.

To Give An Accurate And Exhaustive Account Of That Period Would Need A Far Less Brilliant Pen Than Mine.