[T]here is no greater sign of innate misery than a love of teasing.

Dinner at the Huntercombes' possessed only two dramatic features - the wine was a farce and the food a tragedy.

On the stage . . . masks are assumed with some regard to procedure; in everyday life, the participants act their parts without consideration either for suitability of scene or for the words spoken by the rest of the cast: the result is a general tendency for things to be brought to the level of farce even when the theme is serious enough.

It is not what happens to people that is significant, but what they think happens to them.

Self-pity is essentially humorless, devoid of that lightness of touch which gives understanding of life.

Writing is above all a question of instinct.

Self-love seems so often unrequited.