I write at high speed because boredom is bad for my health.

Television is for appearing on, not looking at.

Conceit is an outward manifestation of inferiority.

An infant prodigy of nine is shoved upon the stage in white. She starts off in a dismal whine about a dark and stormy night, a burglar, whose heart is true, despite his wicked-looking face, who puts the little child in doom, to save her mamma's jewel case. This may bring tears to every eye; it does not set my heart on fire. I'd like to stand serenely by and watch that horrid child expire.

That strange feeling we had in the war. Have you found anything in your lives since to equal it in strength? A sort of splendid carelessness it was, holding us together.

The Stately Homes of England, How beautiful they stand, To prove the Upper Classes, Have still the Upper Hand.

If you must have motivation, think of your paycheck on Friday.