One Passes Through The World Knowing Few,

I Was Impressed For The Ten Thousandth Time By The Fact That Literature Illuminates Life Only For Those To Whom Books Are A Necessity. Books Are Unconvertible Assets, To Be Passed On Only To Those Who Possess Them Already.

I Get A Warm Feeling Among My Books.

Slowly, But Very Deliberately, The Brooding Edifice Of Seduction, Creaking And Incongruous, Came Into Being, A Vast Heath Robinson Mechanism, Dually Controlled By Them And Lumbering Gloomily Down Vistas Of Triteness. With A Sort Of Heavy-fisted Dexterity The Mutually Adapted Emotions Of Each Of Them Became Synchronized, Until The Unavoidable Anti-climax Was At Hand.

When People Really Hate One Another, The Tension Within Them Can Sometimes Make Itself Felt Throughout A Room, Like Atmospheric Waves, First Hot, Then Cold, Wafted Backwards And Forwards As If In An Invisible Process Of Air Conditioning, Creating A Pervasive Physical Disturbance.

[t]here Is No Greater Sign Of Innate Misery Than A Love Of Teasing.