I'm sick. I've eaten civilisation and I'm sick.

The creation by word-power of something out of nothing--what is that but magic? And, may I add, what is that but literature?

The man who comes back through the Door in the Wall will never be quite the same as the man who went out. He will be wiser but less sure, happier but less self-satisfied, humbler in acknowledging his ignorance yet better equipped to understand the relationship of words to things, of systematic reasoning to the unfathomable mystery which it tries, forever vainly, to comprehend

I know very dimly when I start what's going to happen. I just have a very general idea, and then the thing develops as I write.

The critics don't interest me because they're concerned with what's past and done, while I'm concerned with what comes next.

When the individual feels, the community reels.

Along this particular stretch of line no express had ever passed. All the trains--the few that there were--stopped at all the stations. Denis knew the names of those stations by heart. Bole, Tritton, Spavin Delawarr, Knipswich for Timpany, West Bowlby, and, finally, Camlet-on-the-Water.