Each morning the day lies like a fresh shirt on our bed; this incomparably fine, incomparably tightly woven tissue of pure prediction fits us perfectly. The happiness of the next twenty-four hours depends on our ability, on waking, to pick it up.

You cannot be fresh and feeling fine, wearing a washed vest under an unwashed shirt; or, an unwashed vest over a washed shirt. Both have to be clean, to provide a sense of tingling joy. So too outer and inner cleanliness is but the reflection of the inner achievement.

I tell them to give me a tug of the shirt. Then we can get somebody in with fresh legs.

People felt that this is a very tightly controlled company with a lot of levers they can pull.

I m up at 5 in the morning and in bed by 10 in the evening.

Lying in bed would be an altogether perfect and supreme experience if only one had a colored pencil long enough to draw on the ceiling.