The next morning I woke up at oh eight oh oh hours, my brothers, and as I still felt shagged and fagged and fashed and bashed and my glazzies were stuck together real horrorshow with sleepglue, I thought I would not go to school.

I conclude that there is as much sense in nonsense as there is nonsense in sense.

All human life is here, but the Holy Ghost seems to be somewhere else.

I wrote much because I was paid little. I had no great desire to leave a literary name behind me.

Life is, of course, terrible.

The unconscious mind has a habit of asserting itself in the afternoon.

The trouble began with Forster. After him it was considered ungentlemanly to write more than five or six novels.