I Found The Pearl Of The Orient

I Cannot Recall A More Engaging Passage In Fiction, And I've Been Trying For Almost Eighteen Seconds.

The Dubious Privilege Of A Freelance Writer Is He’s Given The Freedom To Starve Anywhere.

I Used To Pride Myself On Being Impervious To The Sentimentalities Of Soap Opera, But When That Loveliest Of Actresses, Rachel Gurney, Of Upstairs, Downstairs, Perished On The Titanic, I Wept So Convulsively And Developed Such Anorexia That I Had To Be Force-fed.

In My More Pompous Moments I Like To Think Of Myself As A Writer Rather Than A Humorist, But I Suppose That's Merely The Vanity Of Advancing Age.

Nature, It Appears, Has Been Rather More Bountiful To Paul's Body And Purse Than To His Intellect; Above The Ears, Speaking Bluntly, The Boy Is Strictly Tapioca.