The mustard — pot got up and walked over to his plate on thin silver legs that waddled like the owl’s. Then it uncurled its handles and one handle li… - T. H. White

Oh, I love the mustard-pot!” cried the Wart. “Wherever did you get it?” At this the pot beamed all over its face and began to strut a bit, but Merlyn rapped it on the head with a teaspoon, so that it sat down and shut up at once. “It is not a bad pot,” he said grudgingly. “Only it is inclined to give itself airs.

It is difficult to write about a real person.

Who doth ambition shun And loves to lie in the sun, Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets,

But there was a time when each of us stood naked before the world, confronting life as a serious problem with which we were intimately and passionately concerned... There was a time when Free Love versus Catholic Morality was a question of as much importance to our hot bodies as if a pistol had been clapped to our heads.

Further back, there were times when we wondered with all our souls, what the world was, what love was, what we were ourselves.