In 1952, I had gone to England on a literary pilgrimage, but what I also saw, even at that distance from the blitz, were bombed-out ruins and an enervated society, while the continent was still, psychologically, in the grip of its recent atrocities.

Death persecutes before it executes.

The power of language, it seems to me, is the only kind of power a writer is entitled to.

It isn't the instrument that influences High-Minded or Low-Minded; it's the quality of Mind itself.

Time at length becomes justice.

He who cries, 'What do I care about universality? I only know what is in me,' does not know even that.

Two things remain irretrievable: time and a first impression.