The whole idea of interviews is in itself absurd - one cannot answer deep questions about what one's life was like - one writes novels about it.

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

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

Writing is above all a question of instinct.

One passes through the world knowing few, if any, of the important things about even the people with whom one has been from time to time in the closest intimacy.

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

He gave me a look of great contempt; as I supposed, for venturing, even by implication, to draw a parallel between a lack of affluence that might, literally, affect my purchase of rare vintages, and a figure of speech intended delicately to convey his own dire want for the bare necessities of life. He remained silent for several seconds, as if trying to make up his mind whether he could ever bring himself to speak to me again; and then said gruffly: 'I've got to go now.'