Love's A Disease. But Curable.

Life Is One Long Struggle To Disinter Oneself, To Keep One's Head Above The Accumulations, The Ever Deepening Layers Of Objects ... Which Attempt To Cover One Over, Steadily, Almost Irresistibly, Like Falling Snow.

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.

There's One Thing About Freedom ... Each Generation Of People Begins By Thinking They've Got It For The First Time In History, And Ends By Being Sure The Generation Younger Than Themselves Have Too Much Of It. It Can't Really Always Have Been Increasing At The Rate People Suppose, Or There Would Be More Of It By Now.

One Could Do With A Longer Year - So Much To Do, So Little Done, Alas.

It Is To The Eccentrics That The World Owes Most Of Its Knowledge.