[history Is] That Terrible Mill In Which

Picasso Was A Delightful, Kindly, Friendly, Simple Little Man. When I Met Him He Was Extremely Excited And Overjoyed That His Mother-in-law Had Just Died, And He Was Looking Forward To The Funeral.

Virginia Woolf's Writing Is No More Than Glamorous Knitting. I Believe She Must Have A Pattern Somewhere.

Good Taste Is The Worst Vice Ever Invented.

The Public Will Believe Anything, So Long As It Is Not Founded On Truth.

I'm Dying, But Otherwise I'm In Very Good Health.