The War Years Count Double. Things And

Nearly All Bookish People Are Snobs, And Especially The More Enlightened Among Them. They Are Apt To Assume That If A Writer Has Immense Circulation, If He Is Enjoyed By Plain Persons, And If He Can Fill Several Theatres At Once, He Cannont Possibly Be Worth Reading And Merits Only Indifference And Disdain.

One Of The Chief Things Which My Typical Man Has To Learn Is That The Mental Faculties Are Capable Of A Continuous Hard Activity; They Do Not Tire Like An Arm Or A Leg. All They Want Is Change - Not Rest, Except In Sleep.

Does There, I Wonder, Exist A Being Who Has Read All, Or Approximately All, That The Person Of Average Culture Is Supposed To Have Read, And That Not To Have Read Is A Social Sin? If Such A Being Does Exist, Surely He Is An Old, A Very Old Man.

I Will Never Cease Advising My Friends And Enemies To Read Poetry Before Anything.

Worry Is Evidence Of An Ill-controlled Brain; It Is Merely A Stupid Waste Of Time In Unpleasantness.