That was the way with grief: it left you alone for months together until you thought that you were cured, and then without warning it blotted out the sunlight.
If you think about the unthinkable long enough it becomes quite reasonable.
Most people’s first books are their best anyways. It’s the one they wanted most to write.
There were people whose only interest in life was writing letters. To the newspapers, to authors, to strangers, to City Councils, to the police. It did not much matter to whom; the satisfaction of writing seemed to be all.
Nothing puts things in perspective as quickly as a mountain.
In hospitals there is no time off for good behavior.
The truth of anything at all doesn’t lie in someone’s account of it. It lies in all the small facts of the time. An advertisement in a paper, the sale of a house, the price of a ring.
Nothing in this world came out of satisfaction. Except the human race.
The trouble with you, dear, is that you think an angel of the Lord as a creature with wings, whereas he is probably a scruffy little man with a bowler hat.
One would expect boredom to be a great yawning emotion, but it isn’t, of course. It’s a small niggling thing.
Lack of education is an extraordinary handicap when one is being offensive.
I expect this is what death is like when you meet it. Sort of wildly unfair but inevitable.