Waiting Is One Of The Great Arts.

The Relationship Between The Two Men Was Something Of A Miracle In Itself. It Was A Cordiality Based, Apparently, On Complete Non-comprehension Cemented By A Deep Mutual Respect For The Utterly Unknown. No Two Men Saw Less Eye To Eye And The Result Was Unexpected Harmony, As If A Dog And A Fish Had Mysteriously Become Friends And Were Proud Each Of The Other's Remarkable Dissimilarity To Himself.

There Are Only Two Kinds Of Men Who Become Dentists. The Ones Who Love It And Ones Who Get Miserable. Think Round And You'll See I'm Right.

People Don't Alter. They May With Enormous Difficulty Modify Themselves, But They Never Really Change.

Chemists Employed By The Police Can Do Remarkable Things With Blood. They Can Weave It Into A Rope To Hang A Man.

Infatuation Is One Of Those Slightly Comic Illnesses Which Are At Once So Undignified And So Painful That A Nice-minded World Does Its Best To Ignore Their Existence Altogether, Referring To Them Only Under Provocation And Then With Apology, But, Like Its More Material Brother, This Boil On The Neck Of The Spirit Can Hardly Be Forgotten Either By The Sufferer Or Anyone Else In His Vicinity. The Malady Is Ludicrous, Sad, Excruciating And, Above All, Instantly Diagnosable.