I was brought up among the sort of self-important women who had a husband as one has an alibi.

That sun, that light had faded, and she had faded with them. Now she was as grey as the season itself.

One loses the capacity to grieve as a child grieves, or to rage as a child rages: hotly, despairingly, with tears of passion. One grows up, one becomes civilized, one learns one's manners, and consequently can no longer manage these two functions - sorrow and anger - adequately.

Life... is not simply a series of exciting new ventures. The future is not always a whole new ball game. There tends to be unfinished business. One trails all sorts of things around with one, things that simply won't be got rid of.

Great writers are the saints for the godless.

For once a thing is known, it can never be unknown. It can only be forgotten.

It will be a pity if women in the more conventional mould are to be phased out, for there will never be anyone to go home to.