The Civilization Of One Epoch Becomes The

The Shock, For An Intelligent Writer, Of Discovering For The First Time That There Are People Younger Than Himself Who Think Him Stupid Is Severe.

Idleness Is Only A Coarse Name For My Infinite Capacity For Living In The Present.

No-one Was Ever Made Wretched In A Brothel.

The Worst Vice Of The Solitary Is The Worship Of His Food.

There Is Immunity In Reading, Immunity In Formal Society, In Office Routine, In The Company Of Old Friends And In The Giving Of Officious Help To Strangers, But There Is No Sanctuary In One Bed From The Memory Of Another. The Past With Its Anguish Will Break Through Every Defense-line Of Custom And Habit; We Must Sleep And Therefore We Must Dream.