No Yoga Exercise, No Meditation In A

Central Heating, French Rubber Goods And Cookbooks Are Three Amazing Proofs Of Man's Ingenuity In Transforming Necessity Into Art, And, Of These, Cookbooks Are Perhaps Most Lastingly Delightful.

I Sat In The Gradually Chilling Room, Thinking Of My Whole Past The Way A Drowning Man Is Supposed To, And It Seemed Part Of The Present, Part Of The Gray Cold And The Beggar Woman Without A Face And The Moulting Birds Frozen To Their Own Filth In The Orangerie. I Know Now I Was In The Throes Of Some Small Glandular Crisis, A Sublimated Bilious Attack, A Flick From The Whip Of Melancholia, But Then It Was Terrifying...nameless...

But If I Must Be Alone, I Refuse To Be Alone As If It Were Something Weak And Distasteful, Like Convalescence.

For Anyone Addicted To Reading Commonplace Books . . . Finding A Good New One Is Much Like Enduring A Familiar Recurrence Of Malaria, With Fever, Fits Of Shaking, Strange Dreams . . . .

I Am More Modest Now, But I Still Think That One Of The Pleasantest Of All Emotions Is To Know That I, I With My Brain And My Hands, Have Nourished My Beloved Few, That I Have Concocted A Stew Or A Story, A Rarity Or A Plain Dish, To Sustain Them Truly Against The Hungers Of The World.