It Was A Book To Kill Time

Publishers Of Course Have You Altogether In Their Grip; If They Say You Must Do A Thing You Have Jolly Well Got To Do It.

It Wasn't Really Touching To Be Young; It Was Touching Not To Be Young, Because You Had Less Of Life Left. Touching To Be Thirty; More Touching To Be Forty; Tragic To Be Fifty; And Heartbreaking To Be Sixty. As To Seventy, As To Eighty, One Would Feel As One Did During The Last Dance Of A Ball, Tired But Fey In The Paling Dawn, Desperately Making The Most Of Each Bar Of Music Before One Went Home To Bed.

One Day I Shall Write A Little Book Of Conduct Myself, And I Shall Call It Social Problems Of The Unsociable. And The Root Problem, Beneath A Hundred Varying Manifestions, Is How To Escape. How To Escape, That Is, At Those Times, Be They Few Or Frequent, When You Want To Keep Yourself To Yourself.

Miss My Daily Mass, And Have A Superstitious Feeling That Anything May Happen On The Days I Don't Go. However, Nothing In Particular Has.

The Superior Thing ... Was To Be Late. Lateness Showed That Serene Contempt For The Illusion We Call Time Which Is So Necessary To Ensure The Respect Of Others And Oneself. Only The Servile Are Punctual.