If there's one word that sums up everything that's gone wrong since the war, it's Workshop. After Youth, that is.

Cats are only human, they have their faults.

Now and then I become conscious of having the reputation of being one of the great drinkers, if not one of the great drunks, of our time.

A blonde girl wearing a man's shirt but in all other visible respects unmanly to the point of outright effeminacy.

Only a world without love strikes me as instantly and decisively more terrible than one without music.

Wives and such are constantly filling up any refrigerator they have a claim on, even its ice-compartment, with irrelevant rubbish like food.

When I find someone I respect writing about an edgy, nervous wine that dithered in the glass, I cringe. When I hear someone I don't respect talking about an austere, unforgiving wine, I turn a bit austere and unforgiving myself. When I come across stuff like that and remember about the figs and bananas, I want to snigger uneasily. You can call a wine red, and dry, and strong, and pleasant. After that, watch out.