Malnutrition of the reading faculty is a serious thing. Let us prescribe for you. - Christopher Morley

"Are you signalling any one?" he asked. "No one in particular. I thought it looked better to have a few flags about." "I daresay you're right. But better take them down if you speak a ship. They're rather confusing." "Confusing? I thought they were just to brighten things up." "You have two different signals up. They read, Bubonic plague, give me a wide berth. Am coming to your assistance."

He was a little weary of this just, charitable, consoling, hebdomadal God; this God who might be sufficiently honoured by a decorously memorized ritual. Yet was he too shallow?

A gathering of booksellers is a pleasant sanhedrim to attend. The members of this ancient craft bear mannerisms and earmarks just as definitely recognizable as those of the cloak and suit business or any other trade. They are likely to be a little — shall we say — worn at the bindings, as becomes men who have forsaken worldly profit to pursue a noble calling ill rewarded in cash. They are possibly a trifle embittered, which is an excellent demeanour for mankind in the face of inscrutable heaven. Long experience with publishers' salesmen makes them suspicious of books praised between the courses of a heavy meal.