I Must Say, I Hate Money. But

Do You Remember Your Childhood? I Am Always Coming Across These Marvelous Accounts By Writers Who Declare That They Remember 'everything.' I Certainly Don't. The Dark Stretches, The Blanks, Are Much Bigger Than The Bright Glimpses. I Seem To Have Spent Most Of My Time Like A Plant In A Cupboard.

You Might Drop Your Heart Into Me And You'd Never Hear It Touch Bottom.

Winter Is A Terrible Time For Thin People - Terrible! Why Should It Hound Them Down, Fasten On Them, Worry Them So? Why Not, For A Change, Take A Nip, Take A Snap At The Fat Ones Who Wouldn't Notice? But No! It Is Sleek, Warm, Cat-like Summer That Makes The Fat One's Life A Misery. Winter Is All For Bones.

By Health I Mean The Power To Live A Full, Adult, Living, Breathing Life In Close Contact With What I Love - The Earth And The Wonders Thereof - The Sea - The Sun, All That We Mean When We Speak Of The External World. I Want To Enter Into It, To Be Part Of It, To Live In It, To Learn From It, To Lose All That Is Superficial And Acquired In Me And To Become A Conscious, Direct Human Being. I Want, By Understanding Myself, To Understand Others.

England Is Merely An Island Of Beef Swimming In A Warm Gulf Stream Of Gravy.