I can't be expected to produce deathless prose in an atmosphere of gloom and eucalyptus.

By neglecting our garden, we are storing up for ourselves, in the not very distant future, a world catastrophe as bad as any atomic war, and we are doing it with all the bland complacency of an idiot child chopping up a Rembrandt with a pair of scissors.

I can't be expected to produce deathless prose in an atmosphere of gloom and eucalyptus.

What fools we are, eh? What fools, sitting here in the sun, singing. And of love, too! I am too old for it and you are too young, and yet we waste our time singing about it. Ah, well, let's have a glass of wine, eh?

Remember that the animals and plants have no M.P. they can write to; they can't perform sit-down strikes or, indeed, strikes of any sort; they have nobody to speak for them except us, the human beings who share the world with them but do not own it.

Animals generally return the love you lavish on them by a swift bite in passing-not unlike friends and wives.

‎'All we need is a book,' roared Leslie; 'don't panic, hit 'em with a book.