The more we elaborate our means of communication, the less we communicate.

Those no-sooner-have-I-touched-the-pillow people are past my comprehension. There is something bovine about them.

I fancy that the Hell of Too Many People would occupy a respectable place in the hierarchy of infernal regions.

We should like to have some towering geniuses, to reveal us to ourselves in colour and fire, but of course they would have to fit into the pattern of our society and be able to take orders from sound administrative types.

One of the delights beyond the grasp of youth is that of Not Going. Not to have an invitation for the dance, the party, the picnic, the excursion is to be diminished. To have an invitation and then not to be able to go -- oh cursed spite! Now I do not care the rottenest fig whether I receive an invitation or not. After years of illusion, I finally decided I was missing nothing by Not Going. I no longer care whether I am missing anything or not.

It is hard to tell where the MCC ends and the Church of England begins.

What a grand, higgledy-piggledy, sensible old place Norwich is!