We had a rough time at Bastogne. No parkas, no shoepaks, no ammo, no nothing.

I have a Wilkinsonian admiration for T. F. Powys, ranking him in English literature with Bunyan, Swift and Blake.

Once you’ve answered all of the questions on one or two pages, bubble in your answers before turning the page.

So sad it seemed, and its cheek-bones gleamed, and its fingers flicked the shore; / And it lapped and lay in a weary way, and its hands met to implore; / That I gently said: Poor, restless dead, I would never work you woe; / Though the wrong you rue you can ne'er undo, I forgave you long ago.