It Is A Common Delusion That You

Sleeping In A Bed -- It Is, Apparently, Of Immense Importance. Against Those Who Sleep, From Choice Or Necessity, Elsewhere Society Feels Righteously Hostile. It Is Not Done. It Is Disorderly, Anarchical.

The Superior Thing ... Was To Be Late. Lateness Showed That Serene Contempt For The Illusion We Call Time Which Is So Necessary To Ensure The Respect Of Others And Oneself. Only The Servile Are Punctual.

Words, Living And Ghostly, The Quick And The Dead, Crowd And Jostle The Otherwise Too Empty Corridors Of My Mind ... To Move Among This Bright, Strange, Often Fabulous Herd Of Beings, To Summon Them At My Will, To Fasten Them On To Paper Like Flies, That They May Decorate It, This Is The Pleasure Of Writing.

God Very Seldom Succeeds. He Has Very Nearly Everything Against Him, Of Course.

Once Learnt, This Business Of Cooking Was To Prove An Ever Growing Burden. It Scarcely Bears Thinking About, The Time And Labour That Man And Womankind Has Devoted To The Preparation Of Dishes That Are To Melt And Vanish In A Moment Like Smoke Or A Dream, Like A Shadow, And As A Post That Hastes By, And The Air Closes Behind Them, Afterwards No Sign Where They Went Is To Be Found.