There Are Many Who Dare Not Kill

Melancholy And Remorse Form The Deep Leaden Keel Which Enables Us To Sail Into The Wind Of Reality; We Run Aground Sooner Than The Flat-bottomed Pleasure-lovers But We Venture Out In Weather That Would Sink Them And We Choose Our Direction.

Fallen Leaves Lying On The Grass In The November Sun Bring More Happiness Than The Daffodils.

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.

We Love But Once, For Once Only Are We Perfectly Equipped For Loving.

Peace ... Is A Morbid Condition, Due To A Surplus Of Civilians, Which War Seeks To Remedy.