In the ordinary business of life punctuality is . . . necessary.

In detective stories . . . I alternately identify myself with the murderer and the huntsman-detective, but . . . there are those to which this vicarious outlet is too mild.

Every living thing is a sort of imperialist, seeking to transform as much as possible of its environment into itself.

As soon as it is held that any belief, no matter what, is important for some other reason than that it is true, a whole host of evils is ready to spring up.

There is something feeble, and a little contemptible, about a man who cannot face the perils of life without the help of comfortable myths. Almost inevitably some part of him is aware that they are myths and that he believes them only because they are comforting. But he dare not face this thought, and he therefore cannot carry his own reflection to any logical conclusion.

Of course not. After all, I may be wrong.

Extreme hopes are born of extreme misery, and in such a world hopes could only be irrational.