I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.

I wrote poems in my corner of the Brooks Street station. I sent them to two editors who rejected them right off. I read those letters of rejection years later and I agreed with those editors.

Life is an onion - you peel it year by year and sometimes cry.

I am an idealist. I don't know where I'm going but I'm on my way.

I had taken a course in Ethics. I read a thick textbook, heard the class discussions and came out of it saying I hadn't learned a thing I didn't know before about morals and what is right or wrong in human conduct.

I can remember only a few of the strange and curious words now dead but living and spoken by the English people a thousand years ago.