Nearly All Novels Are Too Long.

Only One Hour In The Normal Day Is More Pleasurable Than The Hour Spent In Bed With A Book Before Going To Sleep, And That Is The Hour Spent In Bed With A Book After Being Called In The Morning.

The Impulse To Ask Questions Is Among The More Primitive Human Lusts.

Decades Have A Delusive Edge To Them. They Are Not, Of Course, Really Periods At All, Except As Any Other Ten Years May Be. But We, Looking At Them, Are Caught By The Different Name Each Bears, And Give Them Different Attributes, And Tie Labels On Them, As If They Were Flowers In A Border.

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.

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.