Our world will not die as the result of the bomb, as the papers say, it will die of laughter, of banality, or making a joke of everything, and a lousy joke at that.

The nurse knew that those who really love, love in silence, with deeds and not with words.

To truly hate is an art one learns with time.

There are worse prisons than words.

Write," he said. "I'll write to you as soon as I get there," answered Julian. "No. Not to me. Write books. Not letters. Write them for me, for Penelope.

Most of us have the good or bad fortune of seeing our lives fall apart so slowly we barely notice.

Time curses all, I thought, except the truth.