We only need to wear shoes because the British built roads which hurt our feet.

What's it going to be then, eh?

There is a satisfactory boniness about grammar which the flesh of sheer vocabulary requires before it can become a vertebrate and walk the earth.

Each man kills the thing he loves.

You don't say, 'I've done it!' You come, with a kind of horrible desperation, to realize that this will do.

Literature is all, or mostly, about sex.

But, brothers, this biting of their toe-nails over what is the CAUSE of badness is what turns me into a fine laughing malchick. They don't go into what is the cause of GOODNESS, so why of the other shop?