I Thank God Daily For The Good

When A Man Who Is Drinking Neat Gin Starts Talking About His Mother He Is Past All Argument.

I Must Be Like The Princess Who Felt The Pea Through Seven Mattresses; Each Book Is A Pea.

The Lucky Man Is He Who Knows How Much To Leave To Chance.

A Whim, A Passing Mood, Readily Induces The Novelist To Move Hearth And Home Elsewhere. He Can Always Plead Work As An Excuse To Get Him Out Of The Clutches Of Bothersome Hosts.

I Thank God Daily For The Good Fortune Of My Birth, For I Am Certain I Would Have Made A Miserable Peasant.