I've always felt that English women had to be approached in a sisterly manner, rather than an erotic manner.

Then, brothers, it came. Oh, bliss, bliss and heaven. I lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying the sluice of lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh.

We are supposed to be the children of Seth; but Seth is too much of an effete nonentity to deserve ancestral regard. No, we are the sons of Cain, and with violence can be associated the attacks on sound, stone, wood and metal that produced civilization.

The important thing is moral choice. Evil has to exist along with good, in order that moral choice may operate. Life is sustained by the grinding opposition of moral entities.

Every grain of experience is food for the greedy growing soul of the artist.

But we were all feeling that bit shagged and fagged and fashed, it having been an evening of some small energy expenditure.

As we are all solipsists, and all die, the world dies with us. Only very minor literature aims at apocalypse.