If you think about the unthinkable long enough it becomes quite reasonable.

There were people whose only interest in life was writing letters. To the newspapers, to authors, to strangers, to City Councils, to the police. It did not much matter to whom; the satisfaction of writing seemed to be all.

Nothing great ever came out of common sense.

Fasting was good for the imagination but bad for logic.

After three days without one, the desire to read a newspaper vanished. And really, one was happier without.

You can't have a tin can tied to your tail and go through life pretending it isn't there.

Truth is often terribly thin, don't you think?