If you haven't it, I'll go somewhere else and write a book.

I don't propose to be made unhappy by any house or by the lack of any house nor by anything whatsoever.
All the details of life go on here just the same.

The war goes as slowly as death because it _is_ death, death to millions of men.
We've all said all we know about it to one another a thousand times; nobody knows anything else; nobody can guess when it will end; nobody has any doubt about how it will end, unless some totally improbable and unexpected thing happens, such as the falling out of the Allies, which can't happen for none of them can afford it; and we go around the same bloody circle all the time.
The papers never have any news; nobody ever talks about anything else; everybody is tired to death; nobody is cheerful; when it isn't sick Belgians, it's aeroplanes; and when it isn't aeroplanes, it's bombarding the coast of England.

When it isn't an American ship held up, it's a fool American-German arrested as a spy; and when it isn't a spy it's a liar who _knows_ the Zeppelins are coming to-night.

We don't know anything; we don't believe anybody; we should be surprised at nothing; and at 3 o'clock I'm going to the Abbey to a service in honour of the 100 years of peace! The world has all got itself so jumbled up that the bays are all promontories, the mountains are all valleys, and earthquakes are necessary for our happiness.