No Sensible Author Wants Anything But Praise.

But [pooh] Couldn't Sleep. The More He Tried To Sleep The More He Couldn't. He Tried Counting Sheep, Which Is Sometimes A Good Way Of Getting To Sleep, And, As That Was No Good, He Tried Counting Heffalumps. And That Was Worse. Because Every Heffalump That He Counted Was Making Straight For A Pot Of Pooh's Honey, And Eating It All. For Some Minutes He Lay There Miserably, But When The Five Hundred And Eighty-seventh Heffalump Was Licking Its Jaws, And Saying To Itself, "very Good Honey This, I Don't Know When I've Tasted Better," Pooh Could Bear It No Longer.

But It Isn't Easy,' Said Pooh. 'because Poetry And Hums Aren't Things Which You Get, They're Things Which Get You. And All You Can Do Is To Go Where They Can Find You.

Why Does A Silly Bird Go On Saying "chiff-chaff" All Day Long? Is It Happiness Or Hiccups?

No Brain At All, Some Of Them [people], Only Grey Fluff That's Blown Into Their Heads By Mistake, And They Don't Think.

If The Person You Are Talking To Doesn't Appear To Be Listening, Be Patient. It May Simply Be That He Has A Small Piece Of Fluff In His Ear.