Oh, comfortable cocoa!

Only half a page left now. Shall I fill it with 'I love you, I love you'-- like father's page of cats on the mat? No. Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

People's clothes ought to be buried with them.

Thinking of death--strange, beautiful, terrible and a long way off--made me feel happier than ever.

I should rather like to tear these last pages out of the book. Shall I? No-a journal ought not to cheat.

Ham with mustard is a meal of glory