People Are Either Born Hosts Or Born

There Is Much Virtue In A Window. It Is To A Human Being As A Frame Is To A Painting, As A Proscenium To A Play, As 'form' To Literature. It Strongly Defines Its Content.

Few, As I Have Said, Are The Humorists Who Can Induce This State. To Master And Dissolve Us, To Give Us The Joy Of Being Worn Down And Tired Out With Laughter, Is A Success To Be Won By No Man Save In Virtue Of A Rare Staying-power. Laughter Becomes Extreme Only If It Be Consecutive. There Must Be No Pauses For Recovery. Touch-and-go Humour, However Happy, Is Not Enough. The Jester Must Be Able To Grapple His Theme And Hang On To It, Twisting It This Way And That, And Making It Yield Magically All Manner Of Strange And Precious Things.

To Mankind In General Macbeth And Lady Macbeth Stand Out As The Supreme Type Of All That A Host And Hostess Should Not Be.

There Is Laughter That Goes So Far As To Lose All Touch With Its Motive, And To Exist Only, Grossly, In Itself. This Is Laughter At Its Best. A Man To Whom Such Laughter Has Often Been Granted May Happen To Die In A Work-house. No Matter. I Will Not Admit That He Has Failed In Life. Another Man, Who Has Never Laughed Thus, May Be Buried In Westminster Abbey, Leaving More Than A Million Pounds Overhead. What Then? I Regard Him As A Failure.

Men Of Genius Are Not Quick Judges Of Character.