When I die there may be a paragraph or two in the newspapers. My name will linger in the British Museum Reading Room catalogue for a space at the head of a long list of books for which no one will ever ask.

There is still need to think and plan, but on a different scale, and along different lines.

The doctor who applied a stethoscope to my heart was not satisfied. I was told to get my papers with the clerk in the outer hall. I was medically rejected.

A man who writes for a living does not have to go anywhere in particular, and he could rarely afford to if he wanted.