The Poet Speaks To All Men Of

I Have Often Wished I Had Time To Cultivate Modesty... But I Am Too Busy Thinking About Myself.

What The Reporters Are Like! They Are Mad With Excitement At The Thought Of My Approaching Demise. Kind Sister Farquhar, My Nurse, Spends Much Of Her Time In Throwing Them Downstairs. But One Got In The Other Day, And Asked Me If I Mind The Fact That I Must Die.

Virginia Woolf's Writing Is No More Than Glamorous Knitting. I Believe She Must Have A Pattern Somewhere.

The Aim Of Flattery Is To Soothe And Encourage Us By Assuring Us Of The Truth Of An Opinion We Have Already Formed About Ourselves.

Vulgarity Is, In Reality, Nothing But A Modern, Chic, Pert Descendant Of The Goddess Dullness.