Only The Very Greatest Art Invigorates Without

Language Is A Machine For Making Falsehoods.

Every Book Is The Wreck Of A Perfect Idea.

The Notion That One Will Not Survive A Particular Catastrophe Is, In General Terms, A Comfort Since It Is Equivalent To Abolishing The Catastrophe.

Trains Induce Such Terrible Anxiety. They Image The Possibility Of Total And Irrevocable Failure. They Are Also Dirty, Rackety, Packed With Strangers, An Object Lesson In The Foul Contingency Of Life: The Talkative Fellow-traveller, The Possibility Of Children.

There Is Nothing Like The Bootless Solitude Of Those Who Are Caged Together.