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It is a curious thing . . . that every creed promises a paradise which will be absolutely uninhabitable for anyone of civilized taste.
"What war?" said the Prime Minister sharply. "No one has said anything to me about a war. I really think I should have been told. I'll be damned," he said defiantly, "if they shall have a war without consulting me. What's a cabinet for, if there's not more mutual confidence than that? What do they want a war for anyway?"
He lay back for a little in his bed thinking about the smells of food . . . of the intoxicating breath of bakeries and dullness of buns. . . . He planned dinners, of enchanting aromatic foods . . . endless dinners, in which one could alternate flavour with flavour from sunset to dawn without satiety, while one breathed great draughts of the bouquet of old brandy.
Punctuality is the virtue of the bored.
We cherish our friends not for their ability to amuse us, but for ours to amuse them.
I do not believe the expenditure of $2.50 for a book entitles the purchaser to the personal friendship of the author.
