A Human Being: An Ingenious Assembly Of

Continually One Faces The Horrible Matter Of Making Decisions. The Solution Is, As Far As Possible, To Avoid Conscious Rational Decisions And Choices; Simply To Do What You Find Yourself Doing; To Float In The Great Current Of Life With As Little Friction As Possible; To Allow Things To Settle Themselves, As Indeed They Do With The Most Infallible Certainty.

Truth And Beauty (perhaps Keats Was Wrong In Identifying Them: Perhaps They Have The Relation Of Wit And Humour, Or Rain And Rainbow) Are Of Interest Only To Hungry People. There Are Several Kinds Of Hunger. If Socrates, Spinoza, And Santayana Had Had Free Access To A Midnight Icebox We Would Never Have Heard Of Them. Shall I Be Ashamed Of My Little Mewing Truths?... I Ask To Be Forgiven: They Are Such Tiny Ones.

Words Are A Commodity In Which There Is Never Any Slump.

The World Has Been Printing Books For 450 Years, And Yet Gunpowder Still Has A Wider Circulation. Never Mind! Printer's Ink Is The Greater Explosive: It Will Win.

Truth Is What Every Man Sees Lurking At The Bottom Of His Own Soul, Like The Oyster Shell Housewives Put In The Kitchen Kettle To Collect The Lime From The Water. By And By Each Man's Iridescent Oyster Shell Of Truth Becomes Coated With The Lime Of Prejudice And Hearsay.