Mr Earbrass stands on the terrace at twilight. It is bleak; it is cold; and the virtue has gone out of everything. Words drift through his mind: anguish turnips conjunctions illness defeat string parties no parties urns desuetude disaffection claws loss Trebizond napkins shame stones distance fever Antipodes mush glaciers incoherence labels miasma amputation tides deceit mourning elsewards.

Some tiny creature, mad with wrath, is coming nearer on the path.

To take my work seriously would be the height of folly.

Not everything in life can be interpreted metaphorically; that's because things fall out on the way.

More is happening out there than we are aware of. It is possibly due to some unknown direful circumstance.

If you're doing nonsense it has to be rather awful, because there'd be no point.

If something doesn't creep into a drawing that you're not prepared for, you might as well not have drawn it.