Sheep With A Nasty Side.

If Montaigne Is A Man In The Prime Of Life Sitting In His Study On A Warm Morning And Putting Down The Sum Of His Experience In His Rich, Sinewy Prose, Then Pascal Is That Same Man Lying Awake In The Small Hours Of The Night When Death Seems Very Close And Every Thought Is Heightened By The Apprehension That It May Be His Last.

Dining Out Is A Vice, A Dissipation Of Spirit Punished By Remorse. We Eat, Drink, And Talk A Little Too Much, Abuse All Our Friends, Belch Out Our Literary Preferences And Are Egged On By Accomplices In The Audience To Acts Of Mental Exhibitionism. Such Evenings Cannot Fail To Diminish Those Who Take Part In Them. They End On Monkey Hill.

The Books I Haven't Written Are Better Than The Books Other People Have.

There Cannot Be A Personal God Without A Pessimistic Religion. As Soon As There Is A Personal God He Is A Disappointing God.

No One Over Thirty-five Is Worth Meeting Who Has Not Something To Teach Us, Something More Than We Could Learn For Ourselves, From A Book.