Love Taught Me That Your Honour Did

That Instinct For Human Character That Is Perhaps Inherent In An Imaginative Writer.

Fame Is A Powerful Aphrodisiac.

My Two Fingers On A Typewriter Have Never Connected With My Brain. My Hand On A Pen Does. A Fountain Pen, Of Course. Ball-point Pens Are Only Good For Filling Out Forms On A Plane.

Unhappiness In A Child Accumulates Because He Sees No End To The Dark Tunnel. The Thirteen Weeks Of A Term Might Just As Well Be Thirteen Years.

Time Has Its Revenges, But Revenge Seems So Often Sour. Wouldn’t We All Do Better Not Trying To Understand, Accepting The Fact That No Human Being Will Ever Understand Another, Not A Wife With A Husband, Nor A Parent A Child? Perhaps That’s Why Men Have Invented God – A Being Capable Of Understanding.