Believing In Hell Must Distort Every Judgement

The English Masses Are Lovable: They Are Kind, Decent, Tolerant, Practical And Not Stupid. The Tragedy Is That They Are Too Many Of Them, And That They Are Aimless, Having Outgrown The Servile Functions For Which They Were Encouraged To Multiply. One Day These Huge Crowds Will Have To Seize Power Because There Will Be Nothing Else For Them To Do, And Yet They Neither Demand Power Nor Are Ready To Make Use Of It; They Will Learn Only To Be Bored In A New Way.

There Is No Fury Like An Ex-wife Searching For A New Lover.

A Writer Is In Danger Of Allowing His Talent To Dull Who Lets More Than A Year Go Past Without Finding Himself In His Rightful Place Of Composition, The Small Single Unluxurious Retreat Of The Twentieth Century, The Hotel Bedroom.

The Shock, For An Intelligent Writer, Of Discovering For The First Time That There Are People Younger Than Himself Who Think Him Stupid Is Severe.

Words Today Are Like The Shells And Rope Of Seaweed Which A Child Brings Home Glistening From The Beach And Which In An Hour Have Lost Their Luster.