We read the weird tales in newspapers to crowd out the even weirder stuff inside us.

It seems, in fact, that the more advanced a society is, the greater will be its interest in ruined things, for it will see in them a redemptively sobering reminder of the fragility of its own achievements. Ruins pose a direct challenge to our concern with power and rank, with bustle and fame. They puncture the inflated folly of our exhaustive and frenetic pursuit of wealth.

One rarely falls in love without being as much attracted to what is interestingly wrong with someone as what is objectively healthy.

Because the rhythm of conversation makes no allowance for dead periods, because the presence of others calls for continuous responses, we are left to regret the inanity of what we say, and the missed opportunity of what we do not.

As adults, we try to develop the character traits that would have rescued our parents.

It is in books, poems, paintings which often give us the confidence to take seriously feelings in ourselves that we might otherwise never have thought to acknowledge.

Only by declaring a book completely finished can one start to see how much remains to be done on it.