In England, Nobody's Your Friend.

I Now Realize That Education Is A Last Wild Effort On The Part Of The Authorities To Prevent An Overdose Of Leisure From Driving The World Mad. Learning Is No Longer An Improver; It Is Merely The Most Expensive Time-filler The World Has Ever Known.

Fashion Is Not Style. Nay, We Can Say More: Fashion Is Instead Of Style. Style Is An Idiom Springing Spontaneously From The Personality But Deliberately Maintained. If You Have No Personality, You May Be Able To Save Your Face And, Possibly, Your Entire Anatomy By Following The Current Fashion, But All We Shall Know About You, When We See You Coming Down The Street, Is That You Had Enough Money To Buy A Glossy Magazine And Were Sufficiently Cunning To Work Out The Cut Of The Garments Shown Therein.

God, From Whose Territory I Had Withdrawn My Ambassadors At The Age Of Fourteen. It Had Become Obvious That He Was Never Going To Do A Thing I Said.

Central Europe Is Full Of Little Countries Standing Shoulder To Shoulder With No Window To The Sea. They Are Like The Passengers In A Rush-hour Train Which Has Stopped Between Stations For Three Centuries. And They All Hate One Another. And They're All Crushed Together Waving Their National Flags, Clanking Their National Chains, Jabbering Their National Language.

If You Truly Love Me, Kill The Bartender.