It Is To The Eccentrics That The

Age Has Extremely Little To Do With Anything That Matters. The Difference Between One Age And Another Is, As A Rule, Enormously Exaggerated.

Every Year, In The Deep Midwinter, There Descends Upon This World A Terrible Fortnight. ... Every Shop Is A Choked Mass Of Humanity ... Nerves Are Jangled And Frayed, Purses Emptied To No Purposes, All Amusements And All Occupations Suspended In Favor Of Frightful Businesses With Brown Paper, String, Letters, Cards, Stamps, And Crammed Post Offices. This Period Is Doubtless A Foretaste Of Whatever Purgatory Lies In Store For Human Creatures.

Parents Are Untamed, Excessive, Potentially Troublesome Creatures; Charming To Be With For A Time, In The Main They Must Lead Their Own Lives, Independent And Self-employed, With Companions Of Their Own Age And Selection.

Nearly All Novels Are Too Long.

Each Wrong Act Brings With It Its Own Anesthetic, Dulling The Conscience And Blinding It Against Further Light, And Sometimes For Years.