In the deserted harbour there is yet water that laps against the quays. In the dark and silent forest, there is a leaf that falls. Behind the polished panelling the white ant eats away the wood. Nothing is ever quiet, except for fools

It was not his habit to dwell on what could have been, but what could never be.

We do not work for men. We work for the land and the people. We do not even work for money.

If you wrote a novel in South Africa which didn't concern the central issues, it wouldn't be worth publishing.

There is a man sleeping in the grass. And over him is gathering the greatest storm of all his days. Such lightening and thunder will come there has never been seen before, bringing death and destruction. People hurry home past him, to places safe from danger. And whether they do not see him there in the grass, or whether they fear to halt even a moment, but they do not wake him, they let him be.

The tragedy is not that things are broken. The tragedy is that things are not mended again.

For who can stop the heart from breaking?